Play a song for me…

Musicians are being murdered in New Orleans. But Arnie Watson apparently died by his own hand. When Tyler Anderson plays the saxophone he inherited from Arnie, a soldier and musician who died soon after his return, he believes he sees visions of his friend’s life—and death. He becomes convinced Arnie was murdered and that the instrument had something to do with whatever happened, and with whatever’s happening all over the city…

Tyler knows his theory sounds crazy to the police, so he approaches Danni Cafferty, hoping she and Michael Quinn will find out what the cops couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. After all, Cafferty and Quinn have become famous for solving unusual crimes.

They’re partners in their personal lives, too. Quinn’s a private investigator and Danni works with him. When they look into the case, they discover a secret lover of Arnie’s and a history of jealousies and old hatreds that leads them back to the band Arnie once played with—and Tyler plays with now.

They discover that sometimes, for some people, the line between passion and obsession is hard to draw. Only in uncovering the truth can they hope to save others—and themselves—from the deadly hands of a killer.

The Dead Play On

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Dedicated to our men and women in the military, past and present.

And to the USO and International Thriller Writers—especially Sloan D Gibson and John Hanson of the USO, Tom Davin and Chris Schneider of 5.11 Tactical and Kim Howe of ITW.

To those who work at Walter Reed, the hospitals and bases in Kuwait, Ramstadt and Mildenhall.

And to Kathleen Antrim, Harlan Coben, Phil Margulies and F. Paul Wilson—with whom I shared one of the most amazing experiences of my life, a USO tour to visit our servicemen and women.

We can never thank those who serve—who risk everything—enough.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

TYLER ANDERSON KNEW the band’s set list; hell, he’d been playing with the B-Street Bombers for years. They could change things up when they wanted, but it was a Wednesday night, and most Wednesday nights they just kept to the list. They played hard, and they played well, but the weekends tended to be way crazier, with bachelor parties, conventions and the crowds—mainly tourists—that thronged the French Quarter. Wednesdays they did their most popular songs, cover songs by Journey, the Beatles, the Killers and other older songs, along with some newer hits that had made the Top 40 list.

And then something happened.

He picked up his sax—his beloved saxophone, his one precious memento from his friend Arnie Watson.

Arnie was dead and buried now. He’d survived three tours in Afghanistan, only to come home and die of a drug overdose. Arnie’s brokenhearted mother had insisted that Tyler take his saxophone. After all, they’d learned to play together on the sometimes mean streets of New Orleans, working their way up over the years from dollars tossed in their instrument cases to playing scheduled dates in real clubs.

And so Tyler had decided that he could keep his friend close by playing the sax.

But when he picked it up that night, something—he didn’t know what—happened.

They were supposed to go into Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory,” but he didn’t give anyone a chance to begin. He was suddenly playing—and he didn’t know why. He wasn’t even sure he knew what he was playing.

And then he did.

Out of nowhere, he realized, he’d started playing The Call’s “I Still Believe,” which had enjoyed a moment of glory in the vampire film The Lost Boys. It was a good song—a great song for a sax player, with a challenging arrangement. Arnie had loved to play it.

But he had never played the song himself. Didn’t know it.

But he did now. It was as if the damned sax was playing itself.

And as he played, Tyler felt as if the room was drifting away in a strange fog. And suddenly he was seeing things that Arnie might have seen. Sand and mountains and withered shrubs. He heard explosions and men shouting. There was blood.

But...

Arnie had returned from Afghanistan. He’d gone “down range” from his base in Kuwait three times, but he’d come back.

Then the sounds of the explosions dimmed and he saw a New Orleans street.

Rampart Street.

Where Arnie had died.

They’d estimated his time of death at about 5:00 a.m. There should still have been a few people about. Rampart was the edge of the Quarter; Treme was across the street, and while not the best part of town, it had been all right since the summer of storms and the television series. Yeah, there should have been plenty of people around. While a certain song might claim that New York was the city that never slept, everyone knew that title really belonged to New Orleans.

In the wake of his vision, Tyler felt as if he were being physically assaulted, and he found himself gripping the sax as he played as if it were his lifeline. And as he played, the club began to fade again.

He felt as if he were with his old childhood friend, walking down Rampart. They knew it well, having grown up in the Treme area. Not far from St. Louis #1. And churches! Hell, there were churches everywhere around here.

But Arnie was scared, and Tyler could feel it.

Arnie started to run.

It was the oddest damned thing. Tyler could vaguely see reality—the crowd in the Bourbon Street bar. And he could see somewhere else deep in his mind, where Arnie was. It was almost as if he were Arnie.

Beneath the sound of the music he heard a rumble...and a whisper.

“You’re dead, buddy. You’re dead.”

Cold. Cold filled him. Cold like...death.

Then, suddenly, he wasn’t playing anymore. The night was alive with the sound of applause. He blinked—and he was back at La Porte Rouge. His fellow band members were staring at him as if he’d turned pink.

The room was full, and people were pushing one another, trying to get a better look at what was going on. Jessica Tate, one of the waitresses and a good friend, was staring at him as if he’d just changed water into wine, and Eric Lyons, the head bartender, was clapping loudly and—most important—looking pleased, because happy people tended to tip better. His performance had been good for business, Tyler realized.

He lowered his head, lifted the sax and waved to the crowd. And then, with his bandmates Gus, Blake and Shamus looking on, he turned and left the stage—ran from the stage. He had to get out. He had to get the hell out of there.

He ran down Bourbon to the first crossroad and headed toward Rampart. He made a right and came to the place where they’d found Arnie.

The needle still in his arm.

He fell against the wall of an appliance store and sank down, tears in his eyes.

Arnie hadn’t been a junkie. Arnie hadn’t even smoked weed. He’d been doing some heavy drinking since he’d come home, but that was all. His kneecap still pained him from the shrapnel he’d taken on his third tour.

Arnie’s death had been hard—so hard—on everyone. The cops had been sorry, but Tyler had seen the look in their eyes when they’d talked to Arnie’s mother. They’d seen it before when vets came home. They survived bullets and bombs and land mines, but then, away from the war zone, they were unable to adjust. Maybe they lived with too many nightmares. Whatever the reason, the result was that their bodies might have returned, but their minds had been permanently damaged and never came home from the war. They had all tried to assure his mother that Arnie had been a good man. That he hadn’t really been a junkie but had only used the heroin to enter a dream world where he could forget his pain—and then the dream had taken him on to eternal peace.

Tyler sat against the wall, the tears still glistening in his eyes. He slammed his fist against the ground. He cried out loud, sobbing for long minutes. He looked at the sax he was still holding.

And then he knew—somehow, he just knew.

Arnie hadn’t ridden any dream into eternal peace.

He’d been murdered. And whatever the hell it took to prove it, Tyler was going to see that his friend got justice.

Chapter 1

MICHAEL QUINN PARKED his car on the street in the Irish Channel section of the city of New Orleans.

There were several police cars already parked in front of the 1920s-era duplex to which he’d been summoned.

He headed up a flight of steep steps. The door to “A” stood open; an officer in uniform waited just outside on the porch.

“Quinn?” the man asked.

Quinn nodded. He didn’t know the young officer, but the officer seemed to know him. He had to admit, being recognized was kind of nice.

“He’s been waiting for you, but he wants gloves and booties on everyone who goes in. There’s a set over there.” He pointed.

“Thanks,” Quinn said. He looked in the direction the officer indicated and saw a comfortable-looking but slightly rusted porch chair on the far side of the door. He slid on the protective gloves and paper booties.

“You’re good to go,” the officer said.

Quinn thanked him again then entered a pleasant living area that stretched back to an open kitchen. The duplex had been built along the lines of a “shotgun”-style house. It was essentially a railroad apartment; the right side of the room was a hallway that stretched all the way to the back door, with rooms opening off it on the left. He’d never been inside this particular building, but he’d seen enough similar houses to assume the second half of the duplex would be a mirror image, hallway on the left, rooms opening off to the right.

Crime scene markers already littered the floor, and several members of the crime scene unit were at work, carefully moving around the body.

Quinn noticed that one marker denoted the position of a beer can. Another, the contents of a spilled ashtray.

A third indicated a curious splotch of blood.

In the midst of everything, in a plump armchair with padded wooden arms and a pool of dried blood underneath it, was the reason for Quinn’s presence. Dr. Ron Hubert, the medical examiner, was down on one knee in front of the chair, his black medical bag at his side, performing the preliminary work on the victim.

The remnants of what had once been a man sagged against the cushions. His throat had—at the end of the killer’s torture spree—been slit ear to ear. A gag—created from a belt and what had probably been the man’s own socks—remained strapped around the mouth. A drapery cord bound his left wrist, while the right had been tied to the chair with a lamp cord.

Both of the victim’s arms had been burned—with lit cigarettes, Quinn thought. The man’s face had been so bashed in, it wasn’t possible to determine much about what he had looked like in life.

He had been struck savagely, making it look like a rage killing. But a rage killing was usually personal. The addition of torture suggested that the killer was mentally deranged, someone who reveled in what he was doing—and had probably done it before.

And torture wasn’t carried out in a red haze of fury.

“Come around and stick close to the wall, Quinn,” Detective Jake Larue said. He was standing behind the couch, his ever-present notepad in hand, slowly looking around the room as the crime scene techs carefully went through it and the ME examined the corpse. Quinn was surprised at Larue’s directive; the detective knew damned well that Quinn was aware he needed to avoid contaminating the scene.

But this kind of scene unnerved everyone—even a jaded pro like Larue. Most cops agreed that when crime scenes stopped bothering you, it was time to seek new work.

Quinn looked at the walls as he walked around to Larue’s position. He noted a number of photographs of musicians on display. He thought he recognized some of the people in them, although he would have to take some time to remember just who they were.

“What the hell took you so long?” Larue asked.

Quinn could have told him that he’d made it to the house in less than ten minutes once Larue had called him, but it wouldn’t have meant anything at the moment. Frankly, after quickly scanning just the living area, he was wondering why he’d been called. The place was equipped with a large-screen television and a state-of-the-art sound system, so presumably the dead man had had money. There was drug paraphernalia on the coffee table to the side of the couch. A bag of what he presumed to be weed lay out in the open. Glancing toward the kitchen counter, he saw an impressive array of alcohol.

People didn’t tend to get stoned on grass and suddenly turn violent, but they were known to become killer agitated after enough bourbon or absinthe. Was this the result of escalating tensions between associates in the drug trade? There was a wad of twenties lying on the table by the bag of weed—which, he saw on closer inspection, looked to have been tossed carelessly on top of a spill of white powder that he didn’t think would prove to be baking soda or talc.

Drug deal gone bad? Someone holding out on someone?

“Were you first on scene?” Quinn asked, reaching Larue’s side. The detective stood still. Quinn knew he was taking in the room—everything about it.

Larue was a good-looking man with short-cropped hair. His face was a character study—the lines drawn into his features clearly portrayed the complexity of his work and the seriousness with which he faced it. He’d been a damned good partner when they’d worked together, and now that Quinn had been out of the force for several years and worked in the private sector as a PI, they got along just as well together when Larue called him in as a consultant. Even when they’d been partners, Larue had never really wanted to know how Quinn came up with his theories and conclusions. What he didn’t know meant he couldn’t question Quinn’s credibility or his methods.

Larue gave him a questioning glance. “First on the scene were two patrol officers. Since it was pretty evident this man was dead and most likely Lawrence Barrett, who’s lived at this address for several years, they steered clear of him and did their best to check the premises for the killer without touching anything. Then I arrived. Damned ugly, right? And no sign of a clear motive. It looks like drugs were involved, but you and I both know looks can be deceiving. It’s about as ugly as anything I’ve ever seen, though.”

It was possible to learn a lot about murder—and murderers. But no amount of profiling killers, studying the human mind—or even learning from those who had committed horrendous crimes and been caught—could fully prepare anyone, even those in law enforcement, for the next killer he or she might encounter.

“Ugly and brutal,” Quinn agreed.

“What do you see?” Larue asked him.

“A dead man and a hell of a lot of liquor and drugs—not to mention a fat wad of money,” Quinn said. “Doesn’t look like the motive was robbery—or not a typical robbery, anyway. You have a tortured dead man. Hard to discern, given the extent of the damage, but he appears to be in his late twenties to early thirties. Caucasian, say six-foot even and two hundred pounds. From the bleeding, looks like death came from a slit throat, with the facial beating coming post-mortem. Not a lot of blood spray—blood soaked into his clothing and pooled at his feet, but there is that spot on the floor near the entrance. There’s no sign of forced entry, so it’s my best guess he answered the door and let his killer in—which suggests that he knew his attacker or at least expected him. I doubt it was a drug buy, since so many drugs are still here. He lets whoever in. Whatever social discourse they engage in takes place there—four or five feet in. The attacker most likely disables his victim with a blow to the head, maybe even knocks him out. Dr. Hubert will have to determine what occurred, because the face and head are so swollen, I can’t tell. When the victim is knocked out or too hurt to put up a fight, the killer drags him into the chair and ties him to it. What seems odd to me is that the attacker did all this—but apparently came unprepared. Everything he used on the victim he seems to have found right here, in the house. And what happened wasn’t just violent, it was overkill.”

Dr. Hubert looked up from his work and cleared his throat. “Based on his ID, this gentleman indeed is—was—Lawrence Barrett, thirty-three, and according to his driver’s license, five foot eleven. I’d have to estimate his weight, too, but I’d say you’re right in the ballpark.”

Just as Quinn considered Larue one of the best detectives in the city, in his mind Ron Hubert was the best ME—not just in the city, but one of the finest to be found anywhere. Of course, it was true that Quinn had a history of working with Hubert—even when Hubert had been personally involved in a bizarre case that had centered around a painting done by one of Hubert’s ancestors. The more he worked with the ME, the more he liked and respected him.

Quinn turned to Larue. “How was he found? Anyone see the killer coming or going?”

“Barrett has a girlfriend by the name of Lacey Cavanaugh. She doesn’t have a key, though. She came, couldn’t get in, looked through the window and freaked out. The owner of the building, Liana Ruby, lives in the other half of the building, heard her screaming and called the police,” Larue said. “Mrs. Ruby didn’t hear a thing. But then, she’s eighty-plus and was out at the hairdresser’s part of the day. Not to mention there’s special insulation between the walls, too—the former tenant was a drummer, who put it in to keep his practice sessions from disturbing the neighbors. She gave the responding officers the key, but she didn’t step foot inside the apartment. She says she never does—says Barrett has always been good, paid his rent early, was polite and courteous at all times.”

“So where is Mrs. Ruby now?” Quinn asked.

“Lying down next door. I told you, she’s over eighty.”

“What about the girlfriend?” Quinn asked.

“She’s at the hospital. She was with the officers when they opened the door, and when she got a good look at...she went hysterical and tripped down the steps,” Larue told him. “She was still here when I arrived, though, and I interviewed her. She said he didn’t have any enemies as far as he knew. He might have been a coke freak and a pothead—and even an alcoholic—but he was a nice guy who was great to her and tended to be overly generous with everyone.” Larue held his notepad, but he didn’t so much as glance at his notes. He could just about recite word for word anything he’d heard in the first hour or so after responding to a case.

“Okay, so. A nice guy with no known enemies—and a street fortune of drugs still in front of him—was tortured and killed. Do we know what he did for a living?” Quinn asked.

“Musician,” Larue told him. “Apparently he did so much studio work that money wasn’t an issue.”

Quinn looked over at the body again, shaking his head. “No defensive wounds, right?” he asked Dr. Hubert.

“No. I don’t think he even saw the first blow coming,” Hubert said. “Of course, I don’t like answering too many questions until I’ve completed the autopsy.”

“For now, your best guesstimates are entirely appreciated,” Quinn said.

“So?” Larue asked Quinn as the ME went back to examining the body.

“Hmm,” Quinn murmured. “Even if he made a good living, a drug habit is expensive. I don’t know how far you’ve gotten with this. Do we know if he’d borrowed any money from the wrong people? Or, following a different track, did Lacey Cavanaugh have a jealous ex?”

“She’s in surgery for a badly smashed kneecap at the moment. Those are steep steps, you might have noticed,” Larue said. “The hospital has informed me that we’ll be able to talk to her in a few hours.”

“Good. That could be important information,” Quinn said.

This murder was, beyond a doubt, brutal to the extreme. And while Quinn, like most of the world, wanted to believe that every human life was equal to every other human life, in the workings of any law-enforcement department there were always those that demanded different attention. Larue was usually brought in on high-profile cases, cases that involved multiple victims, and those that involved something...unusual.

This murder, Quinn decided, was bizarre enough to warrant Larue’s interest.

It struck Quinn then that he had missed something he should have seen straight off. He realized that the photos on the walls were all of the same man—undoubtedly the dead man—with different musicians and producers of note.

What he didn’t see anywhere in the photos or the room was a musical instrument. Of course, it was possible Barrett kept his instrument in another room, but...

“What did he play?” Quinn asked. “Do we know that?”

“Half a dozen instruments. The man was multitalented.”

Quinn was surprised to get his answer from above—the top of a narrow stairway on the left side of the room.

He saw Grace Leon up there and knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. Jake Larue liked Ron Hubert’s work as an ME, and he liked Grace Leon’s unit of crime scene technicians. Grace was small, about forty, with hair that resembled a steel-wool pad. She was, however, energy in motion, and while detectives liked to do the questioning and theorizing, Grace had a knack for pointing out the piece of evidence that could cement a case—or put cracks the size of the Grand Canyon into a faulty theory. She was swift, thorough and efficient, and her people loved her. Larue had a knack for surrounding himself with the crews he wanted.

“Hey, Grace,” he said. “Thanks. I take it you found a lot of instruments?”

“There’s a room up here filled with them. But more than that—I’ve seen this guy play. He grew up in Houma. I’ve seen him at Jazz Fest—and I’ve seen him a few times on Frenchman Street. He played a mean harmonica, and I’ve seen him play keyboard, guitar, bass—even the drums.”

“This is a competitive town, and he was obviously in demand, but why the hell kill a musician—and so violently?” Larue said thoughtfully.

“Did anything appear to be missing up there?” Quinn asked Grace.

“Not that I can tell,” she said. “But you’re welcome to come up here and look for yourself.”

Quinn intended to.

“He definitely played guitar,” Hubert noted. “I can see the calluses on his fingers.”

“A musician. Tortured, brutally killed,” Quinn said. “Drugs everywhere. And nothing appears to be missing.”

“It’s not the first such murder, either,” Larue said.

“Oh?”

“We had a murder last week—this one is too similar to be a coincidence. A man named Holton Morelli was tortured then bashed to death with one of his own amplifiers,” Larue said.

“He was a musician, too, I take it?” Quinn asked.

Larue nodded.

“What did he play? Was his instrument found in his place?” Quinn asked.

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

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

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

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

“But what?” Larue asked.

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

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

“Same area of the city?” Quinn asked.

Larue shook his head. “Faubourg Marigny.”

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

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

“Tortured how?” Quinn asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quinn lowered his head, grinning. “Thanks.”

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

“Yep, right now.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sheet music? That type of thing?”

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

“Curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded. “You know I will.”

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

“You bet, Quinn.”

He hurried back downstairs.

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

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

“I think that’s obvious,” Quinn said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

There was nothing like the sound of a sax.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hadn’t meant to get so distracted.

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

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

She frowned.

Did she know him?

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

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

Then she left, still feeling a little uneasy.

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I smell lasagna?” Billie asked eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then where did he go?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

“I heard that!” Billie called back.

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

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

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

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

It was the sax player.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not that good.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Are you two married?”

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

“So is it true?”

“Is what true?” she asked carefully.

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

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

“Is it just superstition?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

“I never said anything about suicide.”

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

“I’m more than willing to listen to—”

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

“We’re not infallible.”

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

“Tyler, you can’t know that.”

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

Chapter 2

MRS. LIANA RUBY wasn’t as frail as one might have thought.

They didn’t have to knock on her door; an officer had been keeping watch over her while the police worked in the other side of the duplex. She had been lying on the sofa, but she got up when they came in. She was a little thing, but she quickly offered them tea or coffee, and then, when they declined, she told them, “Well, you may be on duty, but I’m not. Excuse me while I get myself a big cup of tea—with a bigger shot of whiskey.”

Quinn and Larue sat in her living room and waited. When she rejoined them, she was shaking her head with disbelief. “Sad, sad, sad. Poor man. He may have had his vices, but then, he was a musician. And as sad as it is, it’s true sometimes that the more tormented the musician, the more powerful the song. Why anyone would hurt such a polite fellow, I don’t know. Now, that just sounded ridiculous, I know. But he was courteous and kind, with a friendly word for everyone. Kids threw a football into his car and dented it, and he just threw it back. I asked him if he didn’t want to call the police or file an insurance claim, and he shrugged and told me they were just having a good time. Said the dent gave his car character!”

“Did you see or hear anything at all unusual earlier?” Larue asked her.

“Son, I was sound asleep—without my hearing aid. If little green men had descended from Mars and blown up the Superdome, I wouldn’t have heard it,” she said.

“We believe he was killed around 5:00 a.m., Mrs. Ruby,” Quinn said. “I’m not surprised you were sleeping, and certainly not surprised you didn’t hear anything. Did you notice that you didn’t see him later in the day?”

“Good heavens, he works nights. I never saw the man until well past noon,” she said.

“What about anyone—his friends and acquaintances, not to mention strangers—you might have seen visiting him?” Quinn asked.

“Mr. Quinn, you may think I’m generalizing, even stereotyping, but musicians only come in strange,” Mrs. Ruby said. “And so do some ex-athletes.”

That drew a smirk from Larue as he looked at Quinn.

Quinn looked back at Mrs. Ruby. “You know me?”

“I followed your football career years ago, young man.” She wagged a finger at him. “And I witnessed your downfall, saw you join the dregs of humanity, and still, like most of this city, when you died on that operating table and came back to life, I said a hallelujah. Yes, I know you. And I know you were a cop and became a private eye, and that you’ve been working weird cases with this one here—” she paused and nodded toward Jake “—and old Angus Cafferty’s daughter. So let’s establish this right away. You work the strange—and musicians are strange.”

“Can you describe any of the friends hanging around in richer detail than just ‘strange’?” Quinn asked her, grinning.

“Sure. I’m eighty-eight. Not much else to do. Traveling too far around the city tires me out, so I sit on the porch a lot. Lord, I do love watching the life around me. And lots of people come and go. A tall, beautiful black man came a lot. When he’s here, the house is a’rocking. I mean, for real. The man is a drummer. Then there’s a woman—let’s see, early forties, pleasant, hardly strange at all, for a musician. Brown hair, brown eyes.” She leaned toward Quinn. “She’s got the hots for the tall black man. There’s a pudgy fellow, about five foot nine. You got pictures? You show ’em to me. You want to get a sketch artist out here? I can have a go. But I don’t think you’re going to find his killer among them. I got a glance at what they did to him—no friend of the man did anything like that.”

“The first you knew about this in any way was when Lacey Cavanaugh came to you?” Larue asked.

Mrs. Ruby winced. “That poor girl. When we looked in that window, we couldn’t see clear. But he wasn’t moving, and I knew...well, I wasn’t giving anybody a key until the cops came. I’d give a lot to help you more. Whoever did this came and went. Guess he was with Larry for a while,” she said quietly, her face grim.

“Mrs. Ruby, thank you for your help. If you think of anything else, anything at all, that could be helpful, you’ll call us?” Quinn asked. Both he and Larue handed her their cards.

She studied the business cards and then looked at the two men. “How long do you think he was in there?” she asked. “An hour? Two hours?”

“One,” Quinn said. Larue nodded his agreement.

“Still, six in the morning—someone should have seen the killer leave,” she said. “I do watch television, you know. I am aware of how things go down.”

“I’m sure you are,” Jake told her. “And we’re doing a canvass of the neighborhood. I have officers going door-to-door.”

“We watch television, too,” Quinn said gravely.

She gave him a swat on the knee. “Behave, young man. I’ll be here, ready to look at pictures, describe people, whatever you need,” she told them.

“Is there anywhere else you can go?” Larue asked her. “Crime scene techs will be coming and going, and there will be officers on hand for a while, but if you feel insecure...”

“I’m not insecure. At my age?” Mrs. Ruby demanded.

“Still, be careful when you open the door,” Jake warned her.

“Detective Larue,” she said. “I won’t be opening my door without seeing who is outside, I promise you. And if I do open the door, I’ll have my Glock in hand and a truckload of silver hollow-point bullets that will take care of any opponent, human or...otherwise. And don’t you worry. I have a permit for it, and I know how to use it.”

“Just don’t go shooting the postman,” Jake warned.

“Want to visit a shooting range with me?” she demanded sharply. “I won’t go shooting any uppity cops, either, I promise. Though it may be tempting.”

Laughing, Jake apologized as they rose.

They left the house and walked down to the street together, ready to head to the hospital in their separate cars.

“I think the old bird likes you best,” Larue told Quinn.

“You acted as if she were senile. Telling her not to shoot the mailman.”

“She’s eighty-eight!”

“And Bob Hope was still performing for our troops at that age,” Quinn reminded him.

Jake nodded thoughtfully. “It’s all good. I’m glad she likes you. You can talk to her once we figure out which of the city’s musicians she might have been talking about. But then, you were good with that charming old battle-ax from Hubert’s case, and that god-awful painting-society matron, Hattie Lamont,” Larue said.

“Not as good as Billie,” Quinn said, smiling.

“They’re seeing each other?”

“Oh, yes. They fight like a pair of alley cats sometimes, but they can’t stay away from one another,” Quinn said.

“And Danni?”

“Danni is great,” Quinn said softly. They’d agreed to take things slowly, which was almost a necessity, given that he was often asked to consult on cases outside Louisiana. But that was something else they shared. They both believed strongly that working to solve strange crimes was an integral part of who they were.

But he loved being back in town, loved being with her. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, five-nine, slim and agile, her every move graceful. Her eyes reminded him of the blue sky on a clear Scottish morning, and her hair was a rich deep auburn. She was deeply compassionate and possessed old Angus’s steely courage and determination—and she was just as stubborn as her father, too.

“She’s expecting you tonight,” he told Larue.

“Yeah, well, I was just coming over with the files on the first case—wanted to see what you thought or what you might know, since you sit in at the clubs sometimes. But then...then we found Lawrence Barrett.” He fell silent.

Quinn turned. The body of Lawrence Barrett was just being carried out.

Ron Hubert nodded to them. “I’ll get you a report as soon as possible,” he promised.

“Two in a week?” Quinn asked. “We’d better get over to the hospital and hope that Lacey Cavanaugh knows something we can use.”

* * *

“Arnie wasn’t messed up,” Tyler told Danni. “Not like that.”

The saxophone was in its case now, and leaning against the counter. She was glad that the shop was empty, because Tyler seemed too upset to care where they were or what was going on.

“Let’s say you’re right. That someone murdered Arnie. Can you think of any reason why?” she asked him.

“That’s the problem,” Tyler said. He leaned an elbow on the counter and looked reflectively into the distance as he spoke. “We’re talking about a good man here. A black man from a poor neighborhood who went to church every week, loved his family, never stole so much as a dime from anyone and did nothing but love his music. He did the right thing—he up and joined the military because he believed we had to support our way of life. When he came home on leave, he did nothing but hug people and play his music. He didn’t talk much about what he’d done, just said that war was ugly, there were good people who were the enemy and some jerks who were on the same side. He believed he made a difference—he got to see schools being built, and people from both sides coming together to dig wells and feed starving kids. And enemy or not, he said it was hard as hell to kill a man. He survived bombs and gunfire and...came home to this. And I knew his death wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t right from the get-go. He was happy ever since he got home—he came home to his music! His family loved him. They’re good people. They never had much, but what they didn’t have in money, they made up in support. And he never did drugs, not before he went overseas or after he came home. There was no reason for him to walk offstage one night and decide to suddenly stick a needle in his arm. Why can’t anyone else see that?”

“They may question what happened, Tyler,” Danni said. “But we all see the obvious and find it easy to accept, too. You said he was found on the street, a needle in his arm?”

“Yes.”

“No one else around?”

He turned his gaze back to her. “Would you expect a murderer to hang around?”

“What I’m trying to figure out is how someone got him under control so they were able to stick the needle in his arm. There must have been an autopsy.”

“There was.”

“And there was nothing else in his system?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I’m trained to read a death certificate. There were some chemical names in there I didn’t recognize, but even if they were tranquilizers or something, the cops probably just thought he took them himself. And yes, he’d been drinking.”

The little bell over the shop door rang. A couple of young tourists came in, and Danni excused herself, walking over to ask them if they needed any help. They were looking for a specific line of jewelry, and she carried it. She was glad it was in a display case to one side of the store, not under the counter where Tyler was standing as if unaware of her customers, though he managed a smile when they came over to pay.

But as soon as they were gone, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”

What did she think?

She didn’t know what to think. She remembered Arnie. Like Tyler, he’d been a couple of years ahead of her in high school, but he’d played beautifully even then, and she could remember watching him play in the school band. He’d been a big guy, a solid, muscular six-two, at least.

And he’d had training when he joined the military. He couldn’t have been an easy mark.

But she did find it strange that, if Tyler was right, he would begin with drugs by heading straight for a needle.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said.

* * *

Lacey Cavanaugh was out of surgery. In her horror and anguish, she’d pitched down the steep front steps and smashed a kneecap. The doctor warned Quinn and Larue that she was still under heavy sedation—probably a double-edged good thing. She would otherwise be in tremendous pain over both the loss of her boyfriend and the wreck of her leg.

Quinn was standing closest to her head. She opened her eyes when he took her hand.

“Miss Cavanaugh,” Jake said, “we’re so sorry to bother you when I know you’re hurting in every possible way, but I’m afraid we need to talk to you. I’m Detective Larue, and this is my associate Michael Quinn. We have some questions we need to ask you, because as I’m sure you know, time is of the essence as we try to apprehend whoever’s guilty of your boyfriend’s...death. So if you could just think back, when was the last time you saw Mr. Barrett?”

Lacey stared at him from her haze, tears in her eyes. “Oh, God. Larry...”

Quinn squeezed her hand. “We’re so sorry,” he said softly. “We know you loved him, and that he was a good man.”

Larue stared at him; they didn’t really know that he’d been a good man.

But the words had the desired effect on Lacey. She looked at Quinn with such grief and gratitude in her eyes that he almost regretted being quite so gentle.

“He was the best,” she said softly.

“And we have to find out who killed him,” Quinn said. “You want him punished for what he did, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I last saw Larry...last night. I didn’t stay, because my little sister had a piano recital.”

“So last night at what time?” Quinn asked.

“Seven,” she said.

“And you didn’t go back to his house until this afternoon?” Larue asked.

She didn’t answer. She was staring at Quinn, still holding his hand as if it were a lifeline.

“Lacey, did you talk to him again after that?” Quinn asked.

She nodded.

“When was that?” Quinn asked.

“Last night—well, early this morning. Somewhere around three. He was playing last night at the Old Jackson Ale House. I called him at three because that’s about when he gets home.”

“And everything was fine?”

“Yes. We were both going to sleep. And I was supposed to go over to his house in the afternoon. Which I did. He didn’t answer the door. And then I looked in the window and I couldn’t really see...but it looked like...but I thought he’d be okay, you know?”

She began to sob softly.

She really had loved the man, Quinn thought.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Lacey, can you think of anyone—from his past or maybe your own—who would have wanted to hurt him?”

Tears squeezed between her lashes. She shook her head.

“An ex-boyfriend?” Larue asked.

She opened her eyes and glared at him.

“Lacey,” Quinn said, “we have to ask.”

“No,” she said. “My ex married the girl he was cheating on me with—three years ago. We’re actually all on fairly friendly terms. And he’s in Detroit now, anyway, playing some backup gig there.”

“Thank you, Lacey. I hope you understand, we have to ask. What about the drugs?” Quinn said.

Once again tears streamed from her eyes, silent tears that just ran down her cheeks.

“We argued about the drugs,” she said softly. “I said the pot was fine, but the coke...we didn’t need the coke. He didn’t deal, if that’s what you’re getting at. He just shared with friends. He always shared everything with friends. He helped down-and-out musicians. You don’t understand, everyone liked him!”

“What about his ex-girlfriends? Any crazy ones?” Larue asked.

“Crazy ex-girlfriends?” Lacey repeated. “Pretty much all of them,” she said. “But mostly crazy in a good way. And none living in New Orleans. Suzanne Delmer is working on a cruise ship, and she’s crazy like a happy puppy. Before her it was Janis Bruge, and she’s out in LA now. This can’t have been anyone we know—it can’t have been. There’s just no reason.”

“Okay, so let me ask you something else. When you reached the house, did you see anyone around? Anyone at all?” Larue asked.

She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “There were some kids playing with a football in the street. A UPS truck down a block or so. It was just kind of a lazy afternoon. Typical,” she said.

More tears fell.

“Lacey, can you give us a list of people he’d played with recently and the places he’d been playing?” Quinn asked her.

“Of course,” she said. “You want his hangouts, too?”

“Yes, any place he might have come into contact with the person who hurt him,” Quinn said.

She frowned and gave him a hazy look. He realized she’d been doing pretty well for someone who had just undergone surgery and was on heavy-duty meds.

“You know what I think?” she asked.

“What?”

“I think there’s a crazy person in New Orleans.”

There were lots of crazy people in New Orleans, Quinn thought.

“No one who knew Larry could have done this,” she whispered. “There’s a madman out there, a vicious madman breaking into houses and torturing and killing people.”

“Lacey, the killer didn’t break in. Larry opened the door to him,” Larue told her.

She began to sob in earnest. “’Cause he was so nice! He would have opened the door to anyone who needed help. I don’t...I just don’t believe he knew his murderer. You have to catch him. He’s a madman, and he’ll kill more people if you don’t catch him right away!”

* * *

“Danni?”

Danni was definitely relieved to hear Quinn’s voice.

“In the shop!” she called.

“Whatever that is in the kitchen, it smells great. Can’t wait to eat.”

Quinn strode into the shop like a force of nature, though without any intent of seeming so. It was just that he was well over six feet, broad-shouldered and striking, and when he moved, Danni thought, smiling, he drew all eyes to him without even trying. Whenever she saw him—and that was often, since they basically lived together now—she felt a little flutter in her heart, especially if they’d been apart for more than a few hours. No matter how often they touched, he still electrified her. They slept together most nights, and when he was near her, he aroused her; no matter how often they made love, he still thrilled her.

Of course, she reminded herself, she was in love with him.

Even when she wanted to kill him.

He was bright, determined, compassionate and strong.

Also pigheaded and very annoying when she thought she was right and he disagreed. He’d worked with her father, something she hadn’t known until after Angus Cafferty’s death. That had been hard to take at first, but then, she’d never known that her father had been something of a secret sleuth, handling the same kinds of items she and Quinn handled now.

The Cheshire Cat had merely been the tip of the iceberg. Her father had dedicated his life to taking in or destroying items—old and new—with a reputation for being haunted, even evil.

“Oh, excuse me, sorry,” Quinn said when he noticed Tyler Anderson. He smiled slowly, and Danni realized that she was actually a little irked. Quinn’s memory was better than hers. He not only knew he had met Tyler before, he also remembered where and when.

Wolf naturally went trotting over to Quinn for a pat on the head. Quinn obliged absently, his attention on their visitor.

“Tyler Anderson. I know your music, man,” Quinn said, walking forward. He shook Tyler’s hand. “I watched you play years ago when you were at Paisley Park on Frenchman Street. I heard you were still playing around the city. I’ve been meaning to look you up. Great to see you.”

“Thanks,” Tyler said.

“So where are you playing? We’ll come see you,” Quinn said.

Tyler looked at Danni.

“Quinn, Tyler’s here to ask us for help,” she said.

Quinn looked at her, brows hiked high over his hazel eyes. “I...see,” he said slowly. “So, Tyler, you hungry? We’re having something wonderful. I have no idea what it is, but the whole place smells divine.”

“I’ll go see how Billie’s doing,” Danni said. “He should be done with dinner by now.”

The house that contained her shop was one of the oldest in the French Quarter, having survived two major fires that had ravaged New Orleans in the early years. The ground-floor entry led straight into the store, and a hallway led back to the kitchen, dining area and Danni’s studio/office. There were bedrooms upstairs, and a large apartment in the attic, where Billie and Bo Ray Tompkins, who also helped out in the shop, each had their rooms.

She would have called Bo Ray down to help, but he’d had his wisdom teeth extracted earlier that day. He was sleeping, and she didn’t intend to wake him up.

The basement held Angus’s old office, along with a number of items that never would be on sale.

“Tyler,” she said, “come on with me and I’ll introduce you to Billie. Quinn, can you watch the shop for me for a sec?”

He nodded, and she smiled her thanks.

“Billie?” she called, heading through the shop and back to the kitchen.

Wolf trotted after her.

“Just finishing up,” Billie said as they entered. “Hello,” he added, noticing Tyler’s presence. He stood, dusting his hands with his napkin and then offering one to Tyler. “Nice to meet you. I’m Billie. Billie MacDougall.”

Tyler introduced himself in turn.

“Well, then. Table is set, though you’ll need to grab another plate. The lasagna is wonderful. Italian food is delicious, though I assure you, you’ll find many an excellent restaurant in Scotland,” Billie said, looking at Danni.

She laughed and turned to Tyler. “I offended him somehow by liking Italian food,” she explained.

Billie sniffed. “I’ll be watching the shop,” he said, excusing himself. “Wolf, come along with me. There’ll be a treat for you when we close up, I promise, a few bits left over from a good Scottish leg o’ lamb,” he said, looking sternly at Danni before he left the kitchen.

A moment later Quinn walked in and looked at her curiously. “What’s up with Billie? He looked upset, like you offended him or something.”

“Didn’t mean to,” she said, reaching for another plate. “Tyler, please, have a seat.”

Quinn dug into the refrigerator. “Tyler, what will you have to drink?”

“Water would be fine.”

Quinn got another glass and poured them all ice water. Billie had already cut the lasagna into neat serving-size squares, which she dished out before sitting.

“So,” Quinn said, meeting Tyler’s eyes. “Tell us what’s up.” Then he took a bite and started chewing enthusiastically.

Danni lowered her head for a moment. Quinn had probably skipped lunch; he seemed to be starving. Tyler hadn’t even glanced at his plate, and she wasn’t sure whether to be worried about him and his fears or not.

Tyler pushed the food around on his plate. “I think my friend was murdered.”

“Ah,” Quinn said, without seeming surprised. “And your friend’s name was...?”

“Arnie—Arnold Watson,” Danni put in.

Quinn sat back and took a drink of water. Danni saw his brow furrow as he considered her words.

“I read the obituary,” he said quietly. “I thought it was a damned shame. He sounded like a wonderful person. A soldier who gave what he could to his country. It’s hard, though, coming back, sometimes. I’ve known guys who believed they were fine then woke up in the middle of the night shaking and screaming, sweat pouring off them. Even with everything we know about post-traumatic disorders, sometimes...the depth of a guy’s depression is invisible because he thinks he’s all right.”

Tyler Anderson put down his fork. “He didn’t kill himself. And he wasn’t an addict.”

“Of course he wasn’t,” Danni said gently, resting a hand on Tyler’s where it lay on the table.

“No, you don’t understand. I’m an addict—in recovery, but an addict all my life. I would have known if Arnie was into drugs, too, and he wasn’t, not in any way.”

Danni nodded. “But...I’ve seen things happen to men who come home from war. And maybe that was the problem. He wasn’t an addict, but maybe he was in pain. His death was accidental because he only tried it once or twice, and—”

“He tried it once,” Tyler said. “Only once. If you don’t believe me, ask the police. There were no other track marks on him, just the needle mark from the one injection. But it sure in hell wasn’t something he did, and it wasn’t an accidental overdose. Someone did it to him. Someone killed him!”

“I don’t disbelieve you,” Quinn said. “But...how do you know? How can you be so sure? Things can happen overnight, things we don’t expect. I’ve seen cops who can’t take a case for whatever reason, and suddenly, they’re ingesting every substance out there.”

He’d asked the questions, Danni thought, but he already believed Tyler.

“The sax told me,” Tyler said.

For a moment, just for a moment, Danni thought she had misheard him. That he had said, “The sex told me,” as if he had been referring to a girl he’d slept with or who had slept with Arnie.

But then she remembered what he’d said when he came into the shop and realized he was talking about the saxophone.

The musical instrument that now lay in its case by his side on the floor.

“The sax told you?” Quinn repeated.

Tyler nodded gravely. “I was playing...just the other night. It was his sax, you see. It’s really old, some kind of an antique his grandmother bought for him. A silver-plated Pennsylvania Special. I don’t know what it’s worth or the rest of its history. I just know it’s a damned good instrument and Arnie loved it. Said it was special. But the point is, I was playing his sax. And suddenly I was playing his song, and I could see his life—his life before he came home. I saw the war. I could feel the damned sand, it was so real. And then I heard his killer.”

“His dealer?” Quinn asked.

He was really pushing Tyler, Danni thought. Testing him.

Tyler thumped a hand on the table. “His killer,” he repeated. “I heard him talking to Arnie just before he shot him up so full of poison that he died within minutes. I heard him, I’m telling you. I heard him say, ‘You’re dead, buddy. You’re dead.’”

Danni and Quinn turned to look at each other, silent for a moment.

“Are you saying the sax...talked?” Quinn asked.

Tyler closed his eyes, looking as if he was in pain. “No. I was playing the sax,” he said quietly. “But while I was playing I saw what Arnie saw, felt what he felt, heard what he heard.”

“You didn’t happen to see the killer, did you?” Danni asked.

He stared at her. “Are you mocking me?”

“I swear, I’m not,” she said softly. “But if you really believe that he was murdered, why didn’t you go to the police?”

“The police?” Tyler asked drily. “Yeah, right. I wish you could see the way you’re looking at me, and you’re open-minded enough to believe me. The police... I can just imagine the snickers. I’m not sure they’d even try to keep straight faces. You both said you read the newspaper articles about his death, so you know what they’re saying. The same crap you hear everywhere. ‘He just hadn’t adjusted. He was like so many soldiers. Strong, stoic, not about to admit to having nightmares he couldn’t handle, nightmares so bad that he’d turn to drugs to wipe them out.’ Especially not a marine like Arnie. Admit it. That’s all stuff you believed about Arnie when you read he was dead. And like everyone else, I bet you thought, ‘What a waste, what a tragedy. A man comes back from the war and takes his own life. Makes you stop and think.’ But no one stops to think, ‘Hey, whoa, maybe he didn’t kill himself.’”

Tyler was certainly passionate in defense of his position, Danni thought. Of course, he’d been Arnie’s friend. His best friend, she imagined.

“Tyler, how long have you had the sax?” Quinn asked him. “You said it’s special, but would anyone else know that?”

“Probably,” Tyler said and then shrugged. “I don’t know. He told everyone in the band back in high school it was special, that his grandma told him so. I’ve had it since about a week after he died. His mom said she had to give it to someone who would love it the way Arnie had loved it, would take care of it the way he did. She used to love to listen to him, and then she’d laugh. She told us both that Arnie got to be as good as he was because of the sax. His grandmother told him it was special, kind of...magical. But according to his mom, the magic was because he believed it. Plus he loved playing, and he practiced all the damned time. And practicing made him the musician that he was.”

Quinn nodded. “I read in the paper that the family intended to sell his sax, along with his other instruments, and donate the money to a foundation helping veterans.”

“Arnie had a bunch of saxes. They planned to sell some of them, but not this one.”

“What do Arnie’s parents think? Would they tell you if they suspected he’d made any enemies?” Quinn asked.

“Arnie’s parents think he was murdered, too. But there’s nowhere they can go with that any more than I can. They know the police would think they were crazy, too, if they tried to convince them some random killer had hunted Arnie down and killed him with an overdose of heroin.”

Quinn pushed his plate aside and leaned on the table, his attention focused entirely on Tyler.

“Were you with him the night he died? Do you know who he was hanging around with, what might have been going on in his life?” he asked.

Tyler shook his head. “I wasn’t with him the night he died. Wish I had been!” he said fervently. “I was working in the Quarter that night, too. Arnie had been sitting in with my band, getting back into the swing of playing. I was filling in with another group. A friend of mine was sick and needed someone to cover for him, and I figured Arnie was just getting used to my band, so I’d head over to work with the other group. My band didn’t mind. They all knew Arnie was way better than me,” he added without rancor. “Usually when we end a shift we’re all hungry, so we go out for pizza or something. But that night Arnie told them he had something to do, so he’d see them the next night. And that was it. Sometime after he left the band, someone killed him.

“They were playing at the same place where you saw me today, Danni, La Porte Rouge. What the police didn’t investigate, I did. Who was he hanging around with? Me. Other musicians. His family. What was going on in his life? Nothing. So yeah, I promise you, the cops would laugh at me if I tried to tell them some random murderer who didn’t steal a thing from him just decided to off him by pumping him full of heroin. Believe me, I know what I sound like. Like I’m on crack myself. But I know what I saw and what I heard when I played that sax, and...”

“And?” Danni asked.

He looked at her with eyes as gold as his skin and said, “I knew Arnie. And like most of us who grew up around here, he was exposed to his share of drugs and alcohol. He saw what it did to people—including me. Arnie wouldn’t have touched the stuff. Hell, he’d have swallowed his gun before he stuck a needle in his arm. I know it.”

He stopped talking and looked at the two of them questioningly.

Danni turned to Quinn. He nodded slowly.

“We’ll look into it,” he promised.

Danni almost fell off her chair.

How? she wanted to scream at Quinn. How the hell were they going to look into it? No witnesses, the body already interred, and they weren’t likely to get any help from the ME or the cops.

Obviously, Tyler Anderson didn’t want to accept the fact his friend had committed suicide, and maybe that was all this was: a man desperate to think the best of his friend. But then there was the vision he’d claimed to have had while playing the dead man’s sax...

It was all just too damned tragic.

She winced, lowering her head.

And yet, was it any less a tragedy if he’d been murdered?

It was almost as if Tyler read her thoughts. When she looked up, he was staring at her.

He shook his head. “The truth. The truth is what we all need. And if...if I’m right, it’s not vengeance I’m after. It’s justice. Justice for Arnie.”

Looking back at him, she understood. She didn’t know why, but she understood. Wondering, not knowing, those were the emotional upheavals that tore people to pieces.

“We’ll need a lot from you,” Quinn told him. “I need names—all the musicians he might have played with and anyone he might have been seeing. A one-night stand, a long-lost love—anyone. And,” he said, “I’ll have to talk to his family.”

Tyler winced at that. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“And,” Danni added, “if the sax...says anything else to you, we have to know.”

Tyler stiffened and stared at her. “The sax doesn’t talk,” he told her, irritated.

She smiled. “I didn’t say it talked. But if it gives you anything else, another vision, anything else at all, we need to know right away.”

He nodded and said, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said softly.

He rose, picking up the sax case.

“Oh, and...” He paused, looking at his plate as if surprised. Somewhere along the way he’d actually finished his food. “Thanks for the lasagna.”

“My pleasure. I just hope we can help you,” she said.

“One more thing,” Quinn said.

“What’s that?” Tyler asked.

“The sax,” Quinn said.

“The sax?” Tyler repeated, puzzled.

“That’s the sax that Arnie’s mom gave you, right?” Quinn asked.

“That’s it.”

“Leave it here,” Quinn said.

“But...I’m a saxophonist. I make a living playing music.”

“You have others, right?”

“None that I play like this,” Tyler said.

“You’ll play it again,” Quinn promised. “For now, please, let us keep it. Let us try to figure out if there really is something about this sax that’s special. But if anyone comes up to you threatening you for a sax, hand it right over. Any sax you happen to have on you.”

Tyler looked puzzled. “You’re talking about that holdup down near Frenchman Street, right?” he asked, then something dawned in his eyes.

“More than that, Tyler. Two musicians have been killed in their homes.”

“Two?” Tyler looked shocked. “I saw something on the news a few days ago about a guy, but—”

“Another man was killed today. It will be on the eleven o’clock news, if you don’t believe me. I think someone wants the sax you have right there. They just don’t know where it is,” Quinn said. He frowned, puzzled. “Didn’t Arnie have his sax the night he was killed?”

“He must have, but I don’t know if it was found with him or not, and I don’t know what sax he had,” Tyler said.

Danni looked at Quinn. He’d caught her by surprise with his mention of a musician’s murder earlier that day. Clearly he knew much more, saw more connections, than she did.

Tyler looked as if he were loath to part with the instrument.

“It could mean your life,” Quinn said quietly. “And while you’re at it, when you’re talking to people, make a point of saying you wish you had Arnie’s old sax. Don’t tell anyone who doesn’t already know that you had it or where it might be. As far as you know, it went up for auction.”

Tyler still looked doubtful.

“When you got here you told me you knew what Quinn and I did,” Danni said quietly. “So let us do our job, all right?”

Tyler nodded and slowly handed over the sax. “Thank you.” He reached into his pocket and produced his card. “This is me. If you need me at any time for anything, just call. Obviously, when I’m playing, I don’t hear my phone. But I’ll check it every break in case...in case I can help.”

“Here are our numbers,” Quinn said, and produced a card, as well. It had his cell, Danni’s cell and the shop number.

Tyler took the card as if it were a lifeline. “Thanks,” he said.

“Be careful, okay?” Quinn said. “I expect the police will be putting out a parish-wide warning for musicians, but it doesn’t hurt to be reminded. Don’t open the door when you’re alone, even to people you think are your friends. And make sure you warn your band and anyone else you play with that someone has it in for musicians.”

Tyler nodded gravely. “I’ll do that,” he promised.

“I’ll walk you out through the front,” Quinn told him.

Danni picked up in the kitchen while Quinn led Tyler back through the shop. When he came back he slipped his arms around her where she stood at the sink.

She spun in his embrace, staring at him, a sudsy plate in her hands.

“Hey! What the heck is going on? You know way more than I do. Do you really think this has something to do with the incidents with those other musicians? And what about this second murder? Are you sure it makes sense for us to investigate this? Arnie’s death must have been investigated, even if they just wanted to know where he got the heroin. He was a hero and a popular local figure, found dead on Rampart Street. They could be right, you know, and it really was an accidental OD.”

He took the plate from her. Suds were flying, because she was waving it around as she talked, she realized.

“I’m sorry. I thought we’d think alike on this,” he said.

“I’m not saying I disagree.”

“What, then?” He moved away from her, and she was almost sorry she had spoken.

There was a sudden distant look in his eyes, as if he was remembering something she hadn’t been a part of. She loved him so much, but she knew he’d had a life before he’d met her, a very different life. He’d once been a shining star, and then he’d crashed and burned, finally becoming the man he was today.

“You know,” he said quietly. “I was messed up. So messed up that I almost died. I did die, actually. They brought me back.”

“I know that,” she said softly. “I thank God constantly that you came through. And you’re right. I believe Tyler. And I don’t believe Arnie Watson just left work one night and decided to stick a needle in his arm.”

“All these incidents are related—they have to be,” Quinn said. “Larue was mistaken earlier when he told me about Holton Morelli, the musician who was killed in his home last week. He wasn’t the first to die. Arnie Watson was.”

Chapter 3

QUINN HEARD A knock at the side door, off the courtyard entrance, to the house on Royal Street just as he was returning to the kitchen.

He knew it was Larue or another friend. Only those in their close circle ever used the courtyard entrance.

He looked at Danni and saw the resolve reflected in her eyes. He lowered his head, not wanting her to see the bittersweet smile on his lips. He couldn’t help but remember when he’d first gotten to know her. He’d worked with her late father many times. And when he’d been thrown into an “assignment” with her the first time—seeking a mysterious Italian bust—he’d believed he’d been stuck seeking help from a spoiled debutante.

Danni was beautiful, filled with grace and charm and a smile that could melt a man’s heart—or ignite his libido. And Angus had never said a word to her about his special “collection.” She’d been pitched almost blindly into a world where people killed over possessions that were more than they seemed, and where the sins of the past could thunder down upon the present.

And now, when he looked at her, he saw the resolve in her eyes, an implicit promise to find justice for Tyler’s dead friend.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “It’s probably Jake.”

“You have a very odd smile on your face, considering the circumstances,” she told him.

“I was thinking that I’m a lucky man,” he said softly.

“Quinn, this is bad, isn’t it? Very bad.”

“Yes, but I have a luscious—and brilliant—partner,” he told her. “One who comes with...benefits.”

“Hmm. I confess I appreciate my coworker—and eye candy—too,” she said.

She was worried, though; he could tell. Her eyes had already fallen to the sax he’d been so determined they should keep.

There was another knock, and Quinn went to let Larue in.

He greeted Danni warmly. Over the past few years they’d gotten to know one another well. Although Larue preferred to believe in what his five senses told him, Quinn knew he respected the connection he and Danni felt to something...more. And all of them believed deeply in right over wrong, which meant together they were a crime-solving force that worked.

“Want some coffee?” she asked Larue warmly.

“I’ll have something a lot stronger—if that won’t bother you?” he asked, looking at Quinn.

“Not at all. One man’s demon can be another man’s friend,” he said. He looked over at Danni with a questioning glance.

“I’ll stick to coffee,” she said.

Billie came into the kitchen from the shop just then. “Detective Larue, good to see you,” he said then caught the serious vibe in the room and quickly added, “Or not.”

“Billie, good to see you,” Larue replied.

“Shop is locked up,” he said. “I’m going to go catch up on some television, I guess.”

“Stay, Billie,” Quinn said.

“Yes, stay,” Larue echoed.

Billie nodded. He had started working with Angus in Scotland, and after Angus’s death he had cast himself in the role of Danni’s guardian. They were lucky, Quinn knew, to have him in their fold.

Quinn poured Larue a good stiff scotch and set it in front of him. Larue told Danni that he would take a coffee “chaser,” too, and soon the four of them were seated around the table.

Larue spoke first, telling them about the holdup in the street and progressing to the two murders. Quinn, in turn, explained everything that had happened with Arnie Watson and how Tyler Anderson was convinced that Arnie had been murdered.

Larue frowned and said, “The ME reported Arnie’s death as an accidental overdose. Based on the circumstances, we accepted that finding. And I’m still not a hundred percent convinced his death is connected. These other murders... They were about as brutal and sadistic as you can get.”

“The connection makes sense,” Quinn argued. “They were all musicians. The holdup? Only their instruments were stolen. After that, things escalated. First you had Arnie’s death. Maybe it was a gentler murder because the killer and Arnie were actually friends. But Arnie didn’t have the sax on him. Not the right sax, anyway.”

“I wonder why that was,” Danni put in.

“What?” Quinn asked her.

“Arnie had been playing with Tyler’s group that night. But he wasn’t found with his sax, and his family had the...special sax after he died, when his mother gave it to Tyler, who left it here with us. So what happened to his sax that night?” Danni asked.

“Maybe he had a different sax and his killer did take it,” Larue suggested.

“That seems like the most logical explanation,” Quinn said. “The killer lured him to Rampart, where he killed him when no one else was around. He stole the sax from him. But then he discovered it was the wrong one and figured maybe Arnie needed money and had sold it.”

“Could be,” Larue said.

“But he stole all the instruments when he robbed that group of musicians, right?” Danni asked.

“He did,” Larue answered.

“If he was looking for a saxophone, why take other instruments?” she asked.

“So that no one would know he was looking for a sax?” Quinn suggested. “Anyway, somehow the killer got Arnie to go with him. Maybe he was a friend, or maybe he preyed on Arnie’s generosity, which seems pretty well-known, and pretended to need help with something. Maybe he even told him another vet needed help. When Arnie was dead, he took the sax then discovered later it was just a regular sax, not worth what a Penn Special is. Or maybe it wasn’t the monetary value. Maybe he knew it supposedly had special powers and what he wanted was to play as well as Arnie played. And then he started trying to figure out where the sax had ended up, first hiding his goal by stealing a bunch of different instruments. Then he started targeting people he thought were likely to have ended up with it, and when Morelli and Barrett couldn’t or wouldn’t tell him, he got pissed off and killed them.”

“Sounds like a good working theory,” she said.

“Where is this sax you got from Tyler?” Billie asked.

Quinn pointed out the case where it was sitting under the table.

Billie picked it up and opened it carefully then took out the instrument.

“You play?” Danni asked him with surprise.

“If you can play a bagpipe, the sax is a piece of cake.” He coaxed a few off-key notes from the sax. “I didna say I could play well,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

He began to play again. The sounds were suddenly clear and good.

“Nice,” Danni said.

“Is it the sax itself? Is there something special about it?” Quinn asked.

“It’s a good instrument,” Billie said. “But...”

They all sat in silence for a long moment, staring at Billie and the sax.

“It’s a sax,” Billie said at last.

Quinn laughed suddenly. “Okay, so, apparently, the ‘magic’ doesn’t come out for us.”

“All right, no offense, guys, but I’m feeling like a fool—sitting here and waiting for a sax to do something,” Larue said.

“We’re not offended,” Danni said and looked at Quinn. “We need to call Tyler and get him to take us out to meet Arnie’s family. We have to know more about that sax.”

“I’ve got to go home and study some files,” Larue said. “I didn’t handle Arnie’s death, and obviously not the attack on the musicians, but now...with what you’re telling me, maybe everything does all connect. At any rate, I’ll call the night shift and have them set up interviews with those musicians starting first thing in the morning. Quinn, I’ll give you a heads-up as soon as I have a schedule—figure you’ll want to talk to them, too.” He rose.

Quinn knew that Larue had knocked back the scotch in a single swallow and then nursed his coffee the rest of the time they’d been speaking. The man did look tired as hell, but then, he knew that Larue didn’t believe in set hours, and that his life was pretty much his work. He loved New Orleans and considered himself a warrior in the city’s defense.

Quinn followed him to the courtyard door and locked it thoughtfully after him. It was nearly ten. They should all get some sleep and start in the morning, he thought.

But when he returned to the kitchen he found Danni gathering up her shoulder bag, her keys in her hand.

“I called Tyler. The band’s giving him the night off. I’m going to drive by and pick him up, and then he’ll take us to meet Arnie’s family. He says they’re always up late anyway, and I figured we might as well make a start on things.”

He smiled. Danni was her father’s daughter. She wouldn’t stop now.

After all, stopping could mean another life lost.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

“I’ll be holding down the old fort,” Billie said drily. “If Bo Ray comes to after all that pain medication, I’ll bring him up to speed. And if he doesn’t, I just might practice on that sax.”

* * *

Bourbon Street was heading into full swing when Danni drove toward it along St. Ann’s to pick up Tyler Anderson. He was without an instrument and told them that, without him there, the band was only going to play songs that didn’t require a sax.

The Watson family lived in the Treme area, just the other side of Rampart at the edge of the French Quarter. She was easily able to find street parking.

The house was in a line of dwellings that had mostly been built between the 1920s and 1970s. While the Treme area had faced some tough times with gangs and drugs since the summer of storms—Katrina, Rita and Wilma—Danni had a number of friends who lived in the area. True, some had left after the storms, never to return. But many had dug in, driven by a love for New Orleans so deep inside them that it would never die. There was crime here, as there was everywhere. But there were honest citizens here, too, just trying to get through life with work, family and friends.

The Watson house appeared to have been built in the early twenties, with porch and window arches reminiscent of the Deco Age. The yard was neatly mowed, and there were flower beds with lovely blooms lining the concrete path to the house.

“They’re good people,” Tyler said. “They didn’t deserve this.”

“No one deserves this kind of thing, Tyler,” Quinn said.

“No, but them more than most.”

He’d let the Watson family know that they were coming. Before they reached the front door, it was opened by a tall, straight-backed elderly man with light mahogany skin. He smiled as they came up the path. “Welcome, and thank you, folks,” he said. He had his hand out, ready to greet them. “I’m Woodrow Watson. Pleased to have you. Danni Cafferty, I knew your father. Fine man. Can’t say as you’d know me. I was just in your shop a few times. Now, Michael Quinn, I have met you, sir, but I’ll bet you don’t remember me.”

Quinn smiled. “You’re wrong. Now that we’re face-to-face, I do remember you. Your whole family showed up at football games. Arnie was a year or two younger than me, but he was in the band, and you all came out to see him every game.”

“That’s right, son, that’s right. You sure could throw a football,” Woodrow said.

“Well, that was then,” Quinn said.

“Come in, come in,” their host encouraged. He looked at Tyler. “Thank you for bringing us all together.”

“Yes, sir,” Tyler said.

They entered directly into a parlor with a comfortable sofa covered in a beautiful knitted throw and a number of armchairs set with covers to match the throw. As they came in, a woman, wiping her hands on a dish towel, came out to greet them, as well.

“I’m Amy Watson, and thank you all for what you’re doing. Tyler says we’re going to have some help with things at last.”

“We’re going to do our best, Mrs. Watson,” Danni promised her.

“Please. I’m just Amy, and my husband is Woodrow. Sit, sit,” Amy said. “It’s a little small and tight in here, but please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything? We don’t keep any spirits in the house here—figure you can find enough just about anywhere else in the Big Easy. But I have coffee, tea, juice...”

“We’re just fine, Mrs. Watson, thank you,” Danni assured her.

“We just finished dinner and already had some coffee,” Quinn added. “Too much, you know, and we’ll never sleep.”

“Well, then, if you decide you’d like something, you just holler,” Amy said.

“I promise, we will,” Danni said.

“Let’s sit, shall we?” Woodrow asked.

Danni, Quinn and Tyler took the sofa; the Watsons chose the chairs facing them over the carved wooden coffee table.

“I know this is a difficult time for the two of you,” Quinn told the Watsons, “so I apologize in advance for any pain my questions may cause, but the more information I have, the better I can do my job. So...where was Arnie’s special sax—the one you gave Tyler—on the night he was killed?”

The Watsons looked at one another without speaking. Amy had a look of gratitude in her eyes, and it mirrored her husband’s. Woodrow was the one to speak. He looked at Quinn and Danni and said incredulously, “You said killed. You used that word. Killed. So that means you believe us—you believe our son didn’t just suddenly stick a needle in his arm. Right?”

“We do believe you, Mr. and—I’m sorry, Woodrow and Amy,” Danni said. “We do believe you. Some musicians were held up at gunpoint leaving work not long ago. And more recently two musicians have been killed in their homes. We believe that someone is out there looking for something, and it might be Arnie’s sax.”

Woodrow stood up and walked to the fireplace. He leaned an arm on the mantel and looked at his wife then back at Danni. “You think someone is looking for Arnie’s sax? And that they’re killing over it?”

“The sax you gave me,” Tyler said. “And don’t worry—it’s safe. Danni has it at her shop, over on Royal Street.”

Amy and Woodrow looked at each other again.

Finally Amy sighed. “We don’t have his special sax—the one my mother gave him. We assumed he had it with him the night he was killed. We figured it was stolen.”

“Then what did you give me?” Tyler asked her. “You made me feel...”

“That sax is just a replica. We wanted you to feel you had something special of Arnie’s,” Woodrow said. “And you always said he was so good and you were second-rate. We figured if you thought that was Arnie’s ‘special’ sax, you’d feel like you could play just as well as he did. And I’ll bet you have. Playing is believing. Living the music, son, you know that. So we gave you one of his other saxes, the one that looked like the special one his grandmother gave him.”

Tyler looked as if he’d been hit in the head with a two-by-four. “But you don’t understand. It has to be that sax. I could see what Arnie saw. I could feel him when I played it.”

“Magic in the mind, son, magic in the mind,” Amy said. “And it was the best gift we figured we could give you, though there’s no gift out there that says a big enough thank-you to a real friend. And, Tyler, you were his friend. I think you believed in him so much in your mind that you saw his death so you could go out and fight for him.”

“I believed it,” Tyler said. “I believed that sax was magic, that I could play because of that magic—that I could almost talk to Arnie again,” he finished softly.

“That’s magic, son. Love and belief,” Amy said. She looked back at Danni and Quinn. “I don’t rightly know what else could have happened to Arnie’s special sax besides whoever killed him taking it. Arnie was found with nothing except the clothes he was wearing. And,” she added, her lips tight, “that needle in his arm. They even told me they couldn’t find another single track line on him, but I think they wind up with a dead black boy on Rampart Street, and they just don’t want to think anything else.”

“I can assure you, Amy, the detective who’s now on the case—Detective Larue—doesn’t see the world that way at all. We’ll find the truth,” Quinn promised her.

“You know, I heard something about those musicians being held up,” Amy said. “But they were only knocked around and hurt. They weren’t killed.”

“Two people have been killed now, and as I said, right in their own homes. So don’t answer the door to anyone—even old friends of Arnie’s. The killer might come around here if he doesn’t have the sax and I’m right that that’s what he’s looking for,” Quinn said.

“We’re not alone here,” Woodrow said. “We got good friends. We got family around the area. Hey, we got Tyler.”

“Always like a second son,” Amy said fondly.

“Amen,” Woodrow agreed.

“You may be in danger, though,” Danni told them.

“Got a shotgun in the back. I always did protect my home,” Woodrow said.

“Don’t you worry none about us,” Amy said. “Even I know how to use that gun. You just go out there and find out who murdered our boy.”

“We plan to do just that, Amy,” Danni told her, reaching out to touch the woman’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’m not sure how we’ll go about it, but I promise you, we’ll do everything it takes.”

“As will Detective Larue. He’s a good guy,” Quinn said.

“You know the man well?” Woodrow asked.

“I worked with him for years,” Quinn said. “Since...”

“No worries, son,” Woodrow said. “We know about your troubles. You been clean all this time now?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.

“You got an angel with you, boy,” Amy said. “Don’t you forget that.”

Danni watched Quinn. New Orleans was a good-sized city, but that didn’t mean that old-time citizens forgot anything. She knew Quinn’s dark past, and she wasn’t surprised the Watsons did, too. Both his downfall and his resurrection had been covered in the local media.

“I never forget, Amy, trust me,” Quinn told her.

“Bless you, boy,” Woodrow said.

“Thank you,” Quinn said. “And you can’t come up with any explanation of what might have happened to that sax?”

“None. None at all,” Woodrow said. “We reckoned the killer took it that night, like Amy said.”

They were back to square one, Danni thought. But if neither Tyler nor the Watsons had Arnie’s special sax and they were right and the killer was still searching for it, just where the hell was it?

“You at a dead end already?” Woodrow asked. He was clearly trying to sound matter-of-fact, but there was a hopelessness in his voice that squeezed at Danni’s heart.

“No, sir,” Quinn said. “We’re just at the beginning.”

“Thank you,” Woodrow said. “Thank you for what you’re trying to do. But thank you most of all for believing in my son.”

Quinn gave a reluctant grin. “Thank Tyler for that, Woodrow. He made us see the light, so to speak. Not that it was all that difficult—your son was a true hero. But because these days we recognize what soldiers go through, it was easy for people to think maybe he just couldn’t shake the pain of the past. The killer was clever, I’ll give him that. Thing is, by being his champion, Tyler gave us what we needed to get started. No one can promise they’ll solve every crime, but we will promise you this—we won’t stop.”

“Good enough for me. Tyler, you know how we feel about you. And Michael, Danni, you call on us or ask us anything you need or want, any time, day or night,” Woodrow said. “You got our number? Or numbers? Arnie made us buy cell phones. Said he had to get us into the twentieth century, even if he couldn’t quite drag us into the twenty-first.”

“We’ll put them in our phones right now,” Danni said.

They took a minute to exchange numbers. Amy still had trouble saving a number to her own phone once someone had called her, but in the end they prevailed.

Once that was accomplished, Quinn told them, “We could use a list of the people he was hanging with the most since he came home.”

“Us, of course. And the rest of the family. Tyler there. The bands he played with,” Woodrow said. “I can tell you some of the names.”

“I know most of them,” Tyler said. “Like I told you, he was sitting in with my group, the B-Street Bombers, the night he died.”

“At La Porte Rouge?” Danni asked.

“Yes,” Tyler said.

As they spoke, Amy was scribbling on a pad she took from the phone stand by the door. Now she handed the sheet to Danni. “Those are the people he talked about most—the boys in Tyler’s band, a couple of others. I’ll keep thinking and make a list of anyone else,” she promised.

Tyler glanced over at the sheet. “Yep, that’s them. Gus Epstein, lead guitar. Shamus Ahearn, drums and sometimes bass. Blake Templeton, keyboard and sometimes rhythm guitar. We have a steady gig at La Porte Rouge. The bartender runs the place, and he likes us. A couple of guys pinch-hit sometimes, like Arnie was pitch-hitting for me that night. The bartender, Eric—Eric Lyons—sits in sometimes. And one of the waitresses—Jessica Tate—sings with us when we can get her to come up and it isn’t too busy. We work a heavy schedule, but we love what we do, and in this city you can be replaced pretty much at the drop of a dime, so we’re glad for the gig.”

“Want to go barhopping?” Quinn asked Danni. “Or, should I say, want to hop into one bar?”

“Seems like a good idea,” Danni said.

They rose, but Amy stopped them as they turned toward the door. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything first? We’ve got some leftover shrimp and grits, and that’s a dish that gets better warmed up. Or a cola or something?”

“No, no, honestly, sounds wonderful, but we just ate,” Danni assured her.

“Well, then, you just wait a minute. No one leaves my house without a little bit of hospitality,” Amy said.

She disappeared into the kitchen for a brief moment and came back with a small white cardboard box.

“For when you’re hungry or need a little treat,” she told Danni.

Danni thanked her and they left, promising to keep in touch.

She drove back to Royal Street, and as they went, Tyler talked to them about his bandmates.

“Shamus, the lucky bastard, is right out of County Cork. I always thought that was cool, but he thinks growing up here would have been the coolest thing in the world. Goes to show you—the grass always does look greener. Gus was born in Miami Beach but his mom was from Kenner, Louisiana, so he’s been coming up to New Orleans since he was a kid. Blake is from Lafayette, about two and a half hours from here. I met Gus at an open session one night, and the two of us met Shamus at—go figure—Pat O’Brien’s. I knew Blake from a school competition years ago, and I’d heard he was moving here, so I gave him a call. That was years ago now. We’ve had the steady gig at La Porte Rouge for about two years.” He was quiet for a minute. “You know, if one of these guys was a crazed murderer, shouldn’t I have seen the signs somewhere along the line?”

“Maybe not,” Quinn said. “Lots of killers come off like the nicest guys in the world. Anyway, we’ll meet the band. They can tell us about Arnie’s last night with them. You never know, maybe one of them will say something that will trigger someone else’s memory or give us something to go on.”

When they parked near the house and got out, they could hear the mournful sound of a sax coming through an open window.

“That’s Billie,” Danni told Tyler. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Fine with me. It’s not even a special sax,” he said. “I could have sworn... I mean, I played better with that thing than I ever played in my life.”

“Like Amy said, maybe because you believed you could play better,” Quinn suggested.

“But I saw scenes from Arnie’s life.”

“Things you knew because you were his best friend,” Danni said. “Things that fit with the way you think he died.”

Tyler offered them a dry half smile, tilting his head at an angle as if he could hear the music better that way. “He’s not half-bad,” he told them.

“He’s also a bagpipe player—or was,” Danni said.

“You’re sure it’s not the sax?” Tyler asked.

“Not according to the people who should know,” Quinn said. “Do you want me to go in and get it for you?”

“No,” Tyler said. “I have another—let him play. Go ahead and let him play.”

“Come on, then,” Quinn said. “Let’s head over to La Porte Rouge.”

They walked up the one block from Royal to Bourbon and turned to the left. Neon lights blazed from everywhere. Women in scanty outfits stood by doorways with placards that advertised dollar beers and cheap food. People with drinks in open containers—from those who were barely twenty-one, if that, to retirees—cruised along, checking out the various venues in search of one that drew their attention or just taking in the sights and sounds. Music flowed from every establishment. In the street, songs combined and created an intriguing disharmony. Strip joints vied for business alongside all-night pizza joints and white-tablecloth restaurants, souvenir shops, voodoo shops and, always, music clubs.

There really was, Danni thought, nothing quite like Bourbon Street—the good, the bad and even the ugly.

They reached La Porte Rouge and let Tyler lead the way in. The band was in the middle of a Journey number.

The bar was like many on the street. The building itself was about a hundred and fifty years old; the long hardwood bar was about fifty itself, she thought. The stage backed up to the front wall so that the music oozed out the windows and open doors to encourage those who walked by to step in.

Cleanliness was definitely not next to godliness, but the place wasn’t particularly dirty, either. So many people flowed in and out; so many drinks were spilled by the clumsy and the already wasted, that there was only so much the staff could do to keep up. But tonight, while there were twenty or so patrons scattered at the tables or standing in front of the band, it wasn’t particularly busy. It was a Thursday night, and there were no major conventions in town, plus it was still only about eleven or eleven thirty. Bourbon Street would pick up soon—the night was still young in New Orleans.

Tyler was immediately recognized by a pretty blonde woman in black leggings and a corset-style blouse that was white with red trim; Danni saw the same blouse on another woman and figured it had to be a waitress uniform. The blonde wore it well; she was pretty without looking as if she should have been working at one of the nearby strip clubs.

“Tyler!” she said, kissing his cheek and smiling at Danni and Quinn. “I thought you were taking the night off.”

“I was—I am,” he said. “I was just bringing some friends by.” He introduced them all to each other.

The young woman was Jessica Tate. She seemed glad to meet them—“any friend of Tyler’s...”—and especially enthusiastic when she discovered that Danni owned The Cheshire Cat. “I love that place. I haven’t seen you there, though. There’s a guy who looks like Billy Idol most of the time when I’m in—sweet accent on him, too,” she said, smiling.

“His name is Billie,” Danni told her.

“I’m talking away,” Jessica said, “and I’m supposed to be working. What can I get you?”

They ordered soda with lime and took seats at a table near the band.

“The band breaks for a few minutes every half hour,” Tyler said. “You can talk to them soon.”

“Terrific,” Quinn said. Danni watched him as he studied the group. Quinn loved music. She wondered if one day, far in the future, he would have a chance to go where he wanted, play when he wanted and revel in his guitar.

After a few minutes she turned her attention to the group. Shamus Ahearn definitely looked stereotypically Irish. His hair was strawberry-blond, his skin pale and his eyes were light. Gus Epstein had dark, curly, close-cropped hair and was thin and wiry. He seemed totally focused on his guitar as he played. Blake Templeton—dark-haired, dark-eyed—was on keyboards. He was doing the lead vocals, too, and had a strong, smooth voice with a tremendous range.

“Nice!” Quinn called to Tyler over the music.

Tyler grinned. “We’re even better with a sax. I thought Eric—the bartender—might sit in for a few, but I guess it’s just a little too busy.”

“It’s busier now than when we got here a few minutes ago,” Danni noted, looking around at the growing crowd.

“Yep,” Tyler said. “But tomorrow night at this time... Well, you two are from here. You know. Friday nights in the Quarter...”

They talked about the reemergence of the French Quarter since the storms. Jessica brought them their drinks, apologizing for having taken so long. Danni watched her as she headed back to the bar, stopping to take an order along the way. She saw the bartender come over to her and smile as he listened to her recite the drinks she needed. He seemed to enjoy his job; the sudden influx of customers didn’t get to him. There were eight seats at the bar, and every one of them was filled. He was friendly, calling out to the guy at the end that he needed just a minute as he filled Jessica’s order.

Danni turned back to watch the band. Shamus suddenly noticed Tyler in the audience and looked at him curiously then studied her and Quinn—and never missed a beat.

A few minutes later Blake announced that they were taking a five-minute break and turned on the music system so that Lana Del Rey spilled out over the speakers, and then the whole band headed to the table.

“What gives, Tyler?” Shamus asked, sliding into the chair next to Quinn. He quickly offered Quinn a handshake as he studied Danni. “Hi, Shamus Ahearn. Nice to meet you.”

They went around the table making introductions. Then Tyler addressed his bandmates. “They want to ask you guys about Arnie’s last night,” he said flatly.

“Oh,” Shamus said, studying Quinn again. He grinned. “I should have realized you were a cop,” he said.

“I’m not a cop,” Quinn said. “Private investigator.”

“Oh. Okay,” Shamus said.

The rest of the band looked at one another then all shrugged as one. Speaking for the group, Gus said sure, they would be happy to do what they could.

Jessica came by with a tray holding three glasses of water and set them down in front of the band.

“Thank you, love,” Shamus told her.

“Pleasure.”

“You going to sing with us tonight?” Blake asked her.

“Can’t. It suddenly got too busy,” she said. “You guys okay?” she asked Quinn and Danni.

“Just fine, thank you,” Danni assured her.

“What about me?” Tyler teased, raising his eyebrows in a mock leer.

“I know you’re fine—and if you weren’t, you’d lean over the bar and pour yourself a soda,” she said. “So don’t get fresh with me, Tyler Anderson.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jessica moved on.

Gus Epstein was sitting next to Tyler. “I don’t know what we can say that would help. We finished up here about 3:00 a.m. on the night he died. And he was his usual self all night. Friendly, happy. He was just a great guy.”

“Amen to that,” Shamus said.

“Actually, we asked him to go for pizza with us,” Blake said. “We were all starving, so we were going right down the street. But he said he was tired.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Shamus agreed. “He said he wasn’t hungry, that he just wanted to go home and get some sleep. We all said good-night and went our separate ways. Oh, and if you’re asking these questions on behalf of some cop, you can check out my story. Marianna Thomas—a cranky old witch if there ever was one—was waiting tables that night, and she’ll vouch for us.”

“Arnie didn’t say he was going to meet anyone, did he?” Quinn asked.

“No. Like Blake and Shamus told you, he said he was going home to bed,” Gus said. “When we heard about him being...dead, we were all...”

“Fookin’ stunned!” Shamus said.

“And devastated. He was one of the good guys,” Gus added.

“But they said—” Blake began then broke off at a look from Tyler. “You know how they found him,” he said.

“So you’re a private eye,” Shamus said, looking at Quinn. “I guess you don’t think what they’re saying is right.”

“Nope, I don’t,” Quinn said. “Two other local musicians are also dead—Holton Morelli and Lawrence Barrett. Murdered. In their own homes.”

Danni watched the three musicians closely as the conversation continued.

“I heard about Morelli,” Gus said, his tone a dry thread. “But I didn’t think... Well, he was kind of heavy into drugs. Never played straight that I saw. I figured that...”

“Larry Barrett too?” Blake asked. “You sure? I haven’t heard anything about him.”

“I guess it hasn’t hit the news yet, but yes, I’m sure,” Quinn said.

“I knew Larry, too,” Shamus said. “I was jealous as hell of him—he did so much studio work he made a fortune. But he liked his coke, too, you know. Maybe...it’s got to be the drug scene. And we don’t do drugs.”

“Neither did Arnie,” Tyler said.

“Be careful,” Quinn warned them. “Be really careful. It’s looking like both men were killed by someone they thought was a friend. Someone they let in the front door.”

They stayed a few minutes longer, until the band’s break was over. The whole group seemed to be in shock that another musician was dead. They sounded just a little bit off when they returned to the stage.

They parted with Tyler at the club, too. He was going to stay and finish out the night with his band.

On the way back to Royal Street, they were quiet, walking hand in hand.

“What do we do now?” Danni asked.

He looked at her, a slow smile forming on his lips. “We go home, go to bed. Perhaps do something incredibly life affirming. Something distracting, so we can return to this dilemma with fresh minds and a new perspective.”

Danni laughed. “So you want to fool around, huh?”

“I believe it’s called ‘making love,’” he told her. He paused on the street, looking down into her eyes. His were hazel, ever-changing. She loved that there was something serious in them, something that spoke to her of sanity no matter what was going on around them. They’d learned that they had to give themselves over fully to a case in order to solve it, but they also had to hang on to their souls in the process.

“Indeed?” she murmured, stroking his cheek. She loved the rough feel of his jawline and the way that just standing there, thinking about the very near future, sent a sweet rush of liquid longing through her. “Personally, I like the thought of forgetting what we can’t solve in a night and fooling around.”

“However you want to put it is fine with me,” he told her. His strides grew longer as he caught her hand again and hurried her down the street. “By the way, what’s in that box that Amy Watson gave us?”

* * *

Danni let out a sigh of ecstasy. “So good,” she whispered.

“Oh, yeah,” Quinn had to agree. “More?” he teased.

“I don’t know if I can take any more,” she said, but she rolled his way on the bed. “Delicious,” she added.

“Like a touch of silk,” he said.

“Melts on the tongue,” she said. “I just can’t get enough.”

“I’m here, my love. You can have all you want.”

“Then why are you hogging Amy Watson’s homemade candy?” she demanded.

“Hey, I’m passing it right over whenever you ask,” he protested.

She rolled closer and leaned over him, blue eyes dazzling, the fall of her hair sweeping erotically over his naked shoulders. “Actually, I’m done with chocolate,” she told him. A wicked grin teased her lips. “I’m ready for the real candy now.”

“I always try to oblige,” he vowed seriously and took her into his arms.

Their days, he knew, were about to grow longer again, and moments of sweet intimacy might well become few and far between.

It was time to stock up for the future.

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.