The Dead Play On (18 page)

“Nicest assignment I’ve had in a while,” the young officer driving told him. He looked over quickly and flushed in embarrassment. “I was on patrol in the area. I rode by the Watson house every fifteen or twenty minutes. The guy got in and tore the place apart without me ever seeing a thing.”

“How did you find out he’d been there?”

“In addition to the drive-bys, a patrolman was doing a walk-around once an hour. He saw that the back door was open.” The officer shook his head in self-disgust. “I got sloppy, too predictable in my drive-bys. He must have waited for me to pass, and then he went in. The place is... Well, you’ll see.” He was quiet for a long moment. “Thank God no one was home.”

It didn’t take long to get to the Watson house, since there was very little traffic on the way. Even Bourbon had wound down to just a few people closing up or heading out. A couple of lone establishments still had customers nursing drinks, their doors open, their lights on.

When they arrived, Quinn leaped out of the car and hurried up to the front door, where he quickly slipped paper booties over his shoes. Larue was standing just inside, staring around the living room.

Quinn remembered having coffee in this room, which had been spick-and-span at the time.

Now it was as if someone in an absolute rage had torn through on an adrenaline binge. The comfortable couch had been ripped to shreds. Pictures had been torn from the walls, furniture thrown and broken.

Larue looked at Quinn. “It gets worse.”

“How the hell can it be worse?”

A crime scene unit was already on the job. As Larue headed across the living room, Grace Leon, hands gloved, walked in from the back of the house, where the bedrooms were.

“Good to see you, Quinn. I think this guy wears gloves, but we’re trying for a print or a hair or something—anything.” She paused, looking at the two of them. “Good thing what this guy did, he didn’t do to a person.”

“I can’t wait to see the rest,” Quinn said drily.

Larue led him to the first room on the right. Lights were ablaze in there now, so it was easy to see the damage that had been done.

Pillows had been ripped to ribbons, the bed itself stabbed and ripped repeatedly.

There was a hole in one wall. The television had been thrown from the dresser. Clothing had been pulled from the closet and ripped into unidentifiable shreds.

“This is Woodrow and Amy’s room,” Quinn said.

“We’re assuming there were pictures of the kids on the dresser. The frames are shattered, and the pictures are destroyed. Come on into the next room, which was Arnie’s, when he was home,” Larue said.

The next bedroom. Not only were the bed and the pillows slashed, the walls pummeled, and what looked like every piece of clothing in the closet and the dresser ripped and torn and trampled, there was something on the bed.

Raggedly torn pieces of paper. The shreds of a photograph.

Grace Leon stepped up behind Quinn.

“I think I know what it is,” she said. “As soon as the photographer finishes, I’ll show you.”

Quinn went through the rest of the house with Larue, who showed him that the intruder had gained access by breaking in through the back door.

“Could this have been done by just one person? In only twenty minutes?” Quinn wondered aloud.

“He might have been in here longer,” Larue said. “He probably left the lights off. My guess is he was expecting the Watsons to be home. When they weren’t—and he didn’t find what he was looking for—he just went nuts on the place then left through the back, same way he came in.”

“Woodrow Watson had his shotgun with him wherever he went in the house. Who knows, maybe we made a mistake. Maybe Watson would have caught him tonight,” Quinn said.

Larue shook his head. “This guy definitely carries a very sharp knife, and we know he’s got a gun, too. And Watson had to sleep sometime.”

Quinn shook his head. “On the plus side, I don’t think there’s anything paranormal about this. He knows the city, he’s obsessed, but he’s human. And oddly enough, there’s a hopeful sign in all this—though I doubt the Watsons will think so.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s starting to lose it. This destruction is maniacal. At first he was crafty—the way he killed Arnie. He nearly got away with it. Then he held up those musicians, but he didn’t kill them. Even when he started torturing people and murdering them when they didn’t give him what he wanted, he was rational. They would have died even if he’d found what he was looking for, because he didn’t intend to leave any witnesses, but there was nothing wanton in the way he searched their places. Or Jenny and Brad’s. But now he’s losing it, and the more he loses it, the more likely he is to make a mistake, and then we’ll have him.”

“Well, we don’t have him yet,” Larue said. “And we can’t watch every musician in the city. Seriously, do you know how many there are?”

“I think we need to start watching La Porte Rouge more closely.”

“Danni has been playing there every night. I’m sure if she’d seen anything suspicious, she would have said something.”

Quinn nodded. “Still, it’s the last place Arnie played.” He looked at his watch. He couldn’t believe how much time had passed. “I have to get to the airport.”

“You’re leaving town?” Larue asked. He didn’t sound disturbed, just surprised.

“Only for the day,” Quinn said. “Danni and I are going up to talk to a friend of Arnie’s from the service. She’s convinced this friend may know things Arnie didn’t divulge to his local friends or family.”

“Guess that means I get to talk to the Watsons about the destruction of their house. It’s a good thing they’re staying at your place.”

“I hope they see it that way,” Quinn said.

Grace came out of one of the bedrooms and walked over to them. “I’ve collected the pieces of the photo the killer left on Arnie’s bed. I’ll put them together at the lab, but I can tell you what I think they are—a picture of Arnie. A picture of Arnie playing his sax at La Porte Rouge.”

* * *

Despite everything, Danni did fall asleep. Her alarm went off just as she heard Billie’s tap at the door.

She jumped out of bed and turned to see if Quinn was going to get up and come with her.

He wasn’t there.

She was glad she’d worn a long T to bed, because without thinking she burst out into the hall, leaping over Wolf in the process, her heart pounding.

Billie was just heading down the stairs.

“Quinn isn’t here!” she said breathlessly.

“He’s all right,” Billie told her quickly. “Larue called him in on something just as he was getting ready to leave the club. He let me know. He gave Brad and Jenny his keys and left in a patrol car. He’s fine.”

“But...what happened? Was there another murder?”

Billie shook his head. “No, he said no one was dead and there was just a ‘situation.’”

“Oh, okay. Thanks. Sorry you had to get up so early.”

“I’ll take a long nap this afternoon. Right now, I’ll go down and get you some coffee.”

Danni thanked him and hurried back into the bedroom. Wolf whined softly as she passed. She stopped to pet him and said, “Come on in, make yourself comfortable. You’re the best dog in the world.”

Back in her bedroom, she picked up her cell to check for messages. Quinn hadn’t tried to reach her.

She was torn between anger and a sudden compulsion to throw herself back down on the bed and cry. But she couldn’t take the luxury of wasting time feeling hurt and insulted. She had to make that plane. “Macho ass!” she said.

Wolf barked.

“I’m sorry, Wolf, but he
is
a macho ass!”

Showered and dressed, she hurried downstairs, Wolf at her heels. Billie had coffee for her and a small bag filled with PowerBars. “Most of the time they don’t even toss you a bag of pretzels on planes anymore,” he told her. He kept his voice low.

“Everyone else sleeping?” she asked.

He nodded. “I took over from Woodrow. He was on guard with Wolf until about five. I figured I’d just get up so I could wake you and sleep later, when Bo Ray’s up and minding the store.”

“Thanks, Billie,” she told him. “Any more word from Quinn?”

“You could call him.”

“I’ve got to go. Hattie went to a lot of trouble to make this meeting happen, whether she’ll admit it or not. And Wolf, you be a good boy. Guard everyone here. I’ll be back soon.”

Danni left the house. It was barely light. For a moment, just outside the door, she paused.

Was it still early enough for the killer to be stalking his next victim?

She couldn’t play the sax to save her life, she reassured herself. But she couldn’t help remembering that she hadn’t packed the little Glock Quinn had gotten her and taught her how to shoot because she didn’t have any baggage.

“Wolf and I are watching, Danni,” she heard Billie say from the doorway. “Go on, get in your car and go already.”

She smiled. It was good to be part of a team. Feeling safe and secure, she headed to her car, hopped in, waved then opened the gate to the street and eased out.

As she’d hoped, the traffic was light. She wondered about the “situation” that had taken Quinn away so early this morning.

At least he’d said no one else was dead.

She arrived at the airport early and discovered Hattie had booked her in first class. Hattie had proved to be a good friend, and she went out of her way to help them. For her, buying a last-minute first-class ticket might not have seemed extravagant, but it was a big deal for Danni, and she was very grateful.

She hesitated before boarding, hoping Quinn would show up, then wondering why he hadn’t. She worried that something terrible had happened, despite what he’d told Billie.

She could just call him.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it. The two of them didn’t seem to be much of a team at the moment.

She told herself to stop wallowing and boarded.

First class was beyond comfortable. The flight attendant offered her a choice of drinks, and she opted for orange juice then gave her order for breakfast, as well. She thought about the PowerBars now stuffed in her purse. Billie was a good guy, and he and Hattie definitely had something going on. But they were from very different backgrounds. Billie never would have paid for a last-minute first-class ticket. What would he think about Hattie’s generosity? Danni suspected he still had a lot to learn about Hattie.

Maybe no one ever really knew someone else.

The announcement to turn off all electronic devices came over the loudspeakers. They were getting ready to close the doors.

She could try to sleep, since it didn’t appear as if anyone would be sitting next to her.

It was ridiculous, but she fought the sting of tears that teased her eyes.

Quinn had worked with her father for years, respected him, believed in him. Danni knew she’d come a long way from the girl who hadn’t known what her father did—hadn’t known what she’d inherited in The Cheshire Cat. And she knew Quinn loved her. So why couldn’t he trust her instincts the way he’d trusted her father’s?

A fasten-your-seat-belt reminder flashed on the screen overhead, and a flight attendant came on the loudspeaker to tell them they were about to close the doors.

Just when Danni had given up all hope, Quinn walked onto the plane and hurried to take his seat next to her.

Everything in the world seemed to change for the better.

He looked exhausted. Haggard. Five o’clock shadow darkened his chin.

He looked at her, still breathing hard. He’d run through the airport, she thought.

“Hey, made it,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, I see that.” A moment later she added softly, “Thank you.”

“You were right,” he told her.

“About seeing Kevin Hart? We don’t know that yet.”

“No,” he said, and gripped her hand as the plane backed away from the gate. “About the Watsons. If they hadn’t been at your place...well, they would almost certainly be dead now.”

Chapter 11

THEIR TAKEOFF WAS
smooth. By the time they were in the air, he’d told her about Larue’s call and going out to the Watson house, and the violence visited on the furniture and everything else there, including Arnie’s picture. She was upset for the Watsons, he knew.

As soon as they were in the air, their flight attendant came by offering drinks. They both asked for coffee.

The flight attendant asked if they wanted champagne. Quinn could barely keep himself from laughing, and he saw Danni looking at him in curiosity.

“Sorry,” he murmured, when the attendant had moved on. “I was just thinking that we’re both so overtired, one sip of anything would probably put us under our seats.”

Danni smiled. She knew he never drank more than a few sips of beer just so it looked as though he was drinking. He’d died and been resuscitated because the adulation he’d received as a star football player in school had led to overindulgence in too many ways.

He hadn’t known Danni then, and he was glad of that. He liked the man he was now, and when he looked back, he didn’t like the man he had been.

“I slept a few hours,” she said.

“I’m glad. But man, these hours are going to catch up with me soon.”

“Did you learn anything helpful at the Watson place?” Danni asked.

“Not really. Grace Leon—you know Grace. She heads Larue’s favorite crime scene unit—was there, though. If there’s something to find, she’ll find it. Thing is, once she starts dusting for prints, she’ll find lots of them. Arnie had lots of friends, musicians mostly, and then there are his parents’ friends. And of course our prints will be there. It’s a nightmare, for sure. I feel terrible for the Watsons.”

Danni leaned back, wincing as he spoke. “We’re not there,” she said. “Who’s going to tell the Watsons what happened?”

“I talked to Father Ryan on my way to the airport—Larue sent me by squad car, so it was easy to make a few calls. Larue will stop by your place with Father Ryan, and they’ll tell them what happened together. Their place is going to be even more of a mess when the crime scene unit finishes. Trying to return that house to any semblance of normal is going to take tremendous effort and expense.”

“We can all help them.”

“Of course.”

“I just...”

“What?”

She looked over at him. “Well, I’m the one who thought going to DC today was so important, but now I’m wishing we were there with them.”

“I’m sure it
is
important.”

“But I probably could have gone alone,” she said softly.

He sat back, remembering how aggravated he had been with Jenny for her dependence on him and the way it had upset Brad that she had so little faith in him. And he’d realized soon afterward that he owed Danni the same kind of faith. He cared about her so much that his love was keeping him from trusting her judgment. And he couldn’t be that way—not if they were going to make it.

“You probably could have gone alone,” he said, nodding. “But who knows? Maybe it will take both of us to figure out the right question to ask. And Father Ryan is the perfect person to talk to the Watsons. It’s part of his job, after all.” He turned and smiled at her. “We’re going to be all right,” he said softly.

* * *

“Hattie took care of everything. We’re being met and taken straight to Walter Reed and then straight back to the airport,” Danni told Quinn. “And to think you didn’t even like her when you two first met.”

“Have to say, I’m loving the woman at this moment,” Quinn said, grinning. Then he grew serious. “She really has come through for us so many times in so many ways.”

“She really has,” Danni said. “I mean, I know we could have gone to see Kevin without her, but not so soon, and she’s made it all so easy. In fact, we’re being picked up by one of the surgeons who’s been on Kevin’s case from the time he returned to the States, a Major Victor Johnson.”

“Really nice of him to take time out of his schedule, but I guess he wants us to be prepared for Kevin’s challenges, physical and maybe mental, too.”

As soon as they landed and stepped out of the security area, they spotted Major Johnson, standing ramrod straight and looking distinguished in his uniform. He wasn’t holding a placard, but the way he was keenly observing the crowd told Danni he was looking for them. He must have been given a description of them, because he walked right up and introduced himself.

Quinn explained that he had to hit baggage claim before they could leave, and Danni realized he had indeed brought his gun.

“You served?” Johnson asked after Quinn explained that he needed to reclaim his weapon.

“Private first class, US Army,” Quinn said. “Then I was a cop, and now I’m a PI.”

“Then you know what you’re doing,” Johnson said, and pointed toward the sign that directed passengers down to baggage claim. “I can hold on to that for you while we’re at the hospital.”

Once they were in Major Johnson’s Jeep and headed to Bethesda, he asked them what they knew about Kevin Hart. Danni told him what Tyler had told her, and Johnson filled in the gaps.

Kevin had been severely wounded by a land mine. He had been fitted with a prosthetic leg and had extensive surgery on one side of his face. He was doing well. He was a solid individual who wanted to make it back to his old life, but he didn’t like being seen in his hospital room. They were going to meet up with him at the cafeteria.

“May I ask why you’re here?” Johnson asked Quinn. “From what I understand, you’re not friends with Kevin. Hattie just told me that it was important that you talk with him.”

Interesting, Danni thought. Hattie was on a first-name basis with the major.

“We’re looking into a series of murders in New Orleans,” Quinn said. “Kevin was close with one of the victims, Arnie Watson.”

“Watson?” the major asked sharply.

“Yes. Did you know Arnie?” Quinn asked.

Major Johnson shook his head. “No, but I remember talking with Kevin about him. He said there was no way his friend OD’d. But I’m not sure what Kevin can tell you. They kept in contact. In fact, I understand that Watson was one of the few people Kevin allowed in to see him when he returned about six months ago. Arnie was with him when the mine blew. He was the one who pulled Kevin back to safety. Kevin doesn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him. He’s a strong guy, but the day he heard about his friend dying...well, it was a bad day for him.”

“He knows we’re coming to see him?” Danni asked. “And he’s okay with it?”

“He does,” Johnson said.

After that, Quinn told Johnson more about the case and how Tyler Anderson had come to them and that had led to the discovery that Arnie’s supposedly accidental death slash possible suicide had been anything but.

Danni listened and watched the scenery as they drove. The foliage around DC and into Maryland was beautiful. It was truly spring.

Finally they drove up to the security checkpoint outside the hospital complex. Johnson knew the guard, and was quick to exit the car and allow it to be inspected. Then they parked and were on their way to the cafeteria.

On their way in, they passed a group of World War II veterans handing out pamphlets on veterans’ centers across the country.

“Our servicemen and women look after their fellows,” Major Johnson told them.

As they walked through the halls, Danni immediately noticed the number of men in wheelchairs, walking on prosthetic legs and gesturing with prosthetic arms as they emphasized their conversational points.

“The cost of war. We hear about numbers when it comes to death,” Quinn said softly to her. “We don’t always hear the tally when it comes to those who come home missing body parts or unable to walk.”

“This is the place, though,” Johnson told her. “This is where they come for the finest help they can possibly receive. Most of us...most of us don’t see this as work. It’s a matter of dedication.”

In a few minutes they entered the cafeteria, where people were getting food, sitting around dining and talking. Some were civilians, but judging by the number of uniforms, most were in the service in one way or another.

A harpist was playing softly in one corner, and Danni remembered that Tyler had talked about coming, too, and about entertaining the injured.

“That table with the reserved sign on it is ours,” Major Johnson said. “I don’t see Kevin yet, but I’m sure he’ll be right in. I’ll go get coffee. Want something to eat?”

“Thank you, no. Thanks to Hattie, we had plenty to eat on the plane,” Quinn told him.

Johnson smiled. “Her late husband enlisted just out of college,” Johnson said. “And Hattie herself started an organization called Civilians for Soldiers to raise money for the Wounded Warrior Project and the USO. Too bad there aren’t more of her in the world.”

“Amen,” Danni told him. She knew that Hattie was a true philanthropist, quietly supporting a number of worthy causes, but this was one she hadn’t known about.

Danni headed toward their table, but Quinn obviously didn’t feel like sitting yet; he walked back and forth near the entrance then paused to listen to the harpist.

Danni’s eyes were caught by a small beautifully—but also uniquely—set table, with a small metal frame in the center that held a typed sheet of paper. She moved closer to read what it said.

The Fallen Soldier’s Table

This table, set for one, is small, symbolizing the frailty of one prisoner alone against his or her oppressors.

The tablecloth is white, symbolizing the purity of their intentions to respond to their country’s call to arms.

The single red rose in the vase signifies the blood they have shed in sacrifice to ensure the freedom of our beloved United States of America.

This rose also reminds us of the family and friends of our missing comrades who keep the faith, while awaiting their return.

The yellow ribbon on the vase represents the yellow ribbons worn on the lapels of the thousands who demand with unyielding determination a proper accounting of our comrades who are not among us tonight.

A slice of lemon on the napkin reminds us of their bitter fate.

The salt sprinkled on the plate reminds us of the countless fallen tears of families as they wait.

The glass is inverted—they cannot toast with us this night.

The chair is empty—they are not here.

The candle is reminiscent of the light of hope that lives in our hearts to illuminate their way home from their captors, to the open arms of a grateful nation.

Reading the beautiful words, Danni felt the sting of tears at her eyes.

Real ones, she thought. Not the petty tears that plagued her when her feelings were hurt or she was worried about things that might not even be real.

She tried not to look around at all the men and women in the room who were in wheelchairs, who were fitted with prosthetics. She knew they didn’t want pity.

“Danni!”

She turned gratefully to see Major Johnson walking her way, balancing three cups of coffee. She hurried over to grab one. “Oh, thank you. I could have stood in line with you,” she said.

“That’s okay. I want you to meet Corporal Kevin Hart. Kevin, Danni Cafferty,” Johnson said, stepping aside.

For the first time she could see the man who had been standing behind him.

Kevin had been gorgeous. His hair was the color of wheat, his eyes a brilliant blue. He had the look of a Midwestern farm boy with Scandinavian antecedents. He was tall, and he seemed to manage well on his prosthetic leg. He smiled as he shook her hand, and the smile almost reached the half of his face that still bore the scars of the explosion and surgery.

“Thank you so much for seeing me—us,” she said. “Quinn is right over there. He hears music and he’s suddenly lost.”

Kevin’s smile turned rueful. “Like Arnie. He was the only guy who didn’t mind being woken at the crack of dawn by a bugle—as long as it was played well.”

“I’m not sure how I’d feel about a bugle in the morning,” Danni said. “But that harpist is really good.”

Hart nodded. “The USO takes care of us. Even here, they bring in all kinds of people to entertain us. But you came to talk about Arnie. I loved him. I’ll help you in any way that I can.”

Quinn had apparently noticed that Johnson was back and was with Kevin Hart, because he headed right over.

“You want anything, Kevin?” Johnson asked as Quinn approached.

“Nope. And you know me, Doc. If I wanted it, I’d go get it. Part of the therapy,” he explained, looking at Danni. “So tell me. I wrote letters, you know. I wrote to Arnie’s parents. I wrote to the New Orleans police. I knew Arnie didn’t leave work one night and suddenly decide he was going to pick up a heroin habit, much less commit suicide.”

“Why don’t you three take the table?” Johnson said after Quinn reached them and introduced himself. “You can talk while I go over and see how Private Osborn is doing.”

“Will do,” Kevin said, heading for the table. Quinn and Danni followed.

“We don’t believe he committed suicide or that it was an accidental OD, either,” Quinn said. “What we do believe is that someone was after his sax. Unfortunately, if you wrote a letter to the police, some poor first-year file clerk probably just filed it away, given that there was already an official cause of death.”

“Someone killed him for a sax?” Kevin asked incredulously.

“Him—and two other people,” Danni said. “But I guess he gave up on trying to make the deaths look accidental. The others were tortured and killed.”

“Over a sax,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “You face all kinds of hell in a war, and then someone sticks a needle into your arm and you’re dead on your home turf. That’s bitter.”

“Arnie’s folks are good people. I know they want the truth. But more than that,” Quinn said, “we don’t want anyone else to die. We want this killer to face justice.”

“Justice,” Kevin murmured. “Forgive me. Justice to me would be to see the bastard skinned alive. I guess it’s a good thing I’m not judge and jury. You didn’t know Arnie. He went into every situation, no matter how bloody and gruesome, when he had to. But he played with the kids over there, and he believed in making a better world. He could make an instrument out of anything—drums out of pots and pans. Hell, he could play a paper bag and make it sound like a symphony.”