The Dead Play On. Heather Graham

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ