The Dead Play On (5 page)

“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.”