The Dead Play On. Heather Graham

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      “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, СКАЧАТЬ