The Dead Play On

by Heather Graham

  “If that’s what you want,” he said.

  “It is. I worry, you know?”

  Billie set a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will be fine,” he said.

  With Billie behind her, Danni started up the stairs. “I have to be awake by six. The plane is at eight, but I can be ready in fifteen minutes and there’s not much traffic that time of day. But you should get some sleep. You’re not—”

  “If you’re about to say I’m not a young man anymore, don’t!” Billie told her. “I’ll see to it that you’re up and out on time.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “It’s what I do,” Billie said. “I looked after your father. Now I look after you.”

  Danni smiled at that and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Billie.”

  She went into the bedroom that had always been hers. She’d grown up thinking life was a lark. She’d never had any idea that her father collected evil objects, or objects that at the very least made men behave in evil ways. He’d been involved in dangerous situation after dangerous situation, and she’d never even known.

  Her bedroom was comfortable. It was filled with old oak furniture and lots of art, a few pieces of her own, and many more paintings, large and small, by artists she admired.

  She’d always loved this room...

  Now, though, it seemed empty and cold. Just because she was at odds with Quinn.

  They’d wondered at the beginning of their attraction if they could make it as a couple and as a working team. Now she found herself wondering about it all over again.

  They weren’t really arguing, she told herself. They were just having a difference of opinion.

  She had to stop thinking about him and the situation. She really did need to sleep, if only for a few hours. Tomorrow would be a very long day.

  But when she lay down, her eyes were stubbornly wide open and sleep was far away.

  * * *

  Over on Magazine, the Midnight Royale Café was far busier than usual for a Sunday night.

  A local organization had chosen the café for their monthly get-together, and apparently none of them remembered that Monday was a workday.

  Quinn chafed at being there. At first it had seemed logical, given that Jenny had been attacked.

  But now he doubted there was any further need for him to protect Jenny and Brad. The killer had already taken whatever he’d wanted from them. Quinn knew Jenny wanted him around, felt reassured by his presence, but he felt strongly that he needed to be back at La Porte Rouge—where Arnie Watson had played his last set.

  Danni had messaged him earlier with the flight info and a link to his boarding pass. Despite the current chill between them, he intended to be on that plane.

  On a normal Sunday night they would have finished by two; they might have even been packed up and ready to go. But the members of the group were in a party mood, and bars that were hopping were loath to close down, and Quinn really couldn’t blame them. It was after three when the band announced they were on their last number, and even then, the bartender wanted them to keep going.

  Quinn was helping with the equipment when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

  At that hour he instantly felt his heart beat too hard, his muscles tighten.

  Danni.

  But he caught the caller ID as he answered and realized it wasn’t Danni, it was Larue.

  “Quinn,” he answered tersely.

  “You need to join me in Treme,” Larue told him.

  “What happened?”

  “You beat the bullet by the skin of your teeth,” Larue said. “I’m at the Watson house. Someone’s been here. The place has been trashed.”

  “I’ll be there as quickly as I can,” Quinn said. He’d driven, but he had Brad and Jenny with him, and the band was still coiling amp cords and securing the system. “Can you send a patrol car for me? I’m at the Midnight Royale Café on Magazine.”

  “Give my man five minutes,” Larue said and rang off.

  Quinn hurried over to Brad with his keys. “Listen, I have to meet Larue ASAP. Here are the keys to the car. Go straight to the house once you leave here. I’m willing to bet someone is waiting up.”

  Jenny stepped up to him, her eyes wide with concern. “What’s going on? Oh, God, is someone else dead? Quinn, how can you leave now? What about us?”

  “As far as I know, no one else is dead. There’s just a...situation.”

  “But—” Jenny began.

  “Brad, you’re armed, right?” Quinn asked.

  Brad nodded. “And it’s legal. I have a concealed carry permit, but even if I didn’t, with everything that’s going on...”

  “We’re almost ready to go,” Jenny said. “If you just drop us off, you’ll have your car and—”

  “Jenny, have some faith in Brad,” Quinn said. “You’re going to be all right.”

  He didn’t wait for her to respond, just turned and hurried outside. Magazine was almost empty at this hour. Even their rowdy crowd had quickly dispersed. While he waited for the squad car, he pulled out his phone then hesitated. If Danni was sleeping, he didn’t want to wake her. She could use some rest before getting on the plane.

  He sent Billie a quick text message, telling him that he was fine, no one was dead, and he was heading out to meet Larue about a “situation.” Of course, anyone who was still up would know he was with Larue as soon as Brad and Jenny got home, but he figured a message was always a good thing.

  The patrol car arrived just as he finished texting.

  “Thanks,” Quinn said, hopping in.

  “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 a
nd 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.”