Danni came in. “I’ve been in a study, two guest rooms, a sewing room and an office and there are no more rooms. I opened every closet door—and checked the other two bathrooms. There’s no one here.”
“It’s all wrong,” he muttered.
“Why are you so sure of that?” she asked.
“I’ve seen what the bust can do,” he told her. And he had. He’d seen the madness in Vic and he knew what Vic had done.
“The bust is just an object!”
He brushed past her. There was a garage on the other side of the courtyard with an apartment above it. There had to be some kind of entry via the bottom of the U—the traditional design of the house—that surrounded the courtyard. He started down the hall but then paused, noting that the trapdoor to the attic wasn’t completely closed.
He cursed, barely aware of Danni standing behind him, watching him as if he should be in a mental ward.
Quinn pulled down the stairs that led to the attic and quickly climbed up them.
At first, he could see nothing. The attic was lit only by a single dormer window and his eyes had to adjust.
Then he heard a scream of horror behind him. Danni had followed him up. She was pointing.
He blinked, and then he saw it. In the shadowed space that fell just to the side of the window, there was a body swinging from the rafters.
He rushed to it, lifting the slim form of Gladys Simon so that the rope around her neck could no longer strangle her. He held her, dug in his pocket for his knife and cut the thick cord, easing Gladys down to the wooden floor. He straddled her, desperate to perform CPR.
But he’d been a cop—and he’d been around.
Gladys was gone.
He kept up his efforts, anyway. He could be wrong....
He vaguely heard Danni calling the police. And he felt her hand on his shoulder.
“She’s dead,” Danni said softly.
He knew it was true.
He sat back on his haunches, bitterly ruing the time it had taken to reach her. When Danni touched him again, he jerked away.
At that moment, he hated her as much as he hated himself.
* * *
Danni felt disjointed.
Horrified and disjointed. The morning had started out like any other—and now she was sitting in the parlor of an uptown home while police and paramedics moved in and out, listening to Bertie cry and Quinn speak with a detective in controlled tones. The way he’d looked at her when he’d given up on resuscitating Gladys had cut her to the core. She felt tremendous guilt, and anger that she should feel that way. She had come when he’d told her to come. She couldn’t have known the woman was going to commit suicide! And she had called the police, and they’d promised to send social services out to investigate.
She was still sitting here—waiting, as the police had asked—feeling as if the earth had tilted slightly off its axis.
She wanted to leave, to go home, forget the horror of seeing Gladys Simon’s body swaying in the shadows, forget she’d seen the woman’s face when Quinn had brought her down.
She’d never forget it, though. Something was unalterably changed and she hated it.
“What do you know about this?”
She startled to awareness; the detective—a man named Jake Larue—was standing beside her, looking down at her.
She raised her hands. “I don’t know anything. I wish I did. Mrs. Simon came into my shop today, swearing that a bust her husband had bought had killed him. She was extremely agitated. I called the police—not the emergency line, she wasn’t walking around with a knife or a gun—and I was assured someone was going to see to her.” Her words sounded defensive, like an excuse. They were an excuse.
Could she have said or done anything that would have saved the woman’s life?
Larue turned to Quinn, shaking his head. “She was bereft. Her husband had just died. You’re trying to tell me she didn’t kill herself?”
“No, I believe she might well have killed herself, but if anyone can answer that question for sure, it’ll be the medical examiner. We searched the house before we found her. The police response when Ms. Cafferty called in the death was excellent—I think a cruiser was here in two or three minutes. No one was crawling around the house or the grounds. I didn’t, however, get into the garage,” Quinn said.
“I have men searching the area now, but if she did kill herself, there’s no reason to expect that someone was in the house.”
“But someone was in here,” Quinn said with certainty.
Larue groaned. “You just said she killed herself.”
“Yes, I believe she did.”
“Then why would anyone have been here?” Larue asked, his eyes narrowed. Danni noted that he wasn’t looking at Quinn as if he was crazy; instead, Larue looked as if he wanted to groan again, sink down in a chair and clamp his head between his hands. He held his ground, though, only a long breath escaping him as he stared at Quinn.
“The bust is gone,” Quinn told him.
“The bust...the bust that supposedly killed Hank Simon?” Larue asked skeptically.
Quinn nodded. “Mrs. Simon was convinced it killed her husband.”
“And you think a bust killed her, too?” Larue asked.
“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what was in her head. If she believed the bust killed him, she might have believed it would kill her,” Quinn said. He shrugged. “Or worse—maybe she believed it would have some kind of dangerous effect on her...I don’t know. I can only say she was acting very erratically and that’s why I came here. I’d seen her in the French Quarter, and to my deepest regret, it seems she was in a far worse frame of mind than I’d imagined.”
Larue sighed. “Quinn, it’s going to get more and more complicated, isn’t it? Every time you’re involved—”
“Wait!” Quinn protested. “You’re the one who asked me to check on Vic Brown and his raving about the bust, remember?”
“I’m not publicizing the fact that I brought you in, you know,” Larue reminded him.
Quinn grinned and nodded slightly.
“We were partners once,” Larue explained to Danni.
“He’s a good cop,” Quinn said. “A really good cop.”
“And Quinn is a damned good investigator, but I am a cop and...well, police forces all over sometimes call on P.I.s. With Quinn, I know it’s cool because even if he doesn’t make big bucks on a case like this, he’s going to be okay financially.”
Danni sensed that Quinn could feel her looking at him curiously. “I have a trust fund from my grandmother, who managed to buy just the right stocks at the right time,” he explained. “So I’m okay when I work on something that doesn’t involve a paying client. Something I’m interested in. And I’m always available for Larue when he needs a little help.”
“Thank God, since the force isn’t rolling in money and I’m going to be stretching the budget to the limit to bring in the overtime on this. I can already see it coming!” Larue turned to Danni. “Thanks to Quinn,” he added.
“But you have to admit it’s worth it. Because I’m usually a step ahead, and you know I do my damnedest to get answers,” Quinn finished for him.
Larue was silent for a minute, then sighed again.
Danni was surprised. She’d never imagined that Quinn was actually accepted by the police force—a force he’d left.
“All right,” Larue said briskly. “So you figure this bust—which Mrs. Simon believes killed her husband—is missing? That someone broke into the house as she was killing herself and stole it?”
“I don’t know if the thief broke in before or after she killed herself, but whoever stole it might have been ready to kill for it, anyway,” Quinn told Larue.
Danni spoke up. “No one needed t
o kill her for the bust. She wanted it out of the house. She would’ve given it to anyone who asked.”
Both of them looked at her—as if they’d forgotten she was there.
“Yes, she wanted it gone,” Quinn agreed. “But the person who stole it might not have known she was desperate to get rid of it. That’s irrelevant. We were too late, the bust is gone and there’ll be more deaths over it.”
“You’ve lost me, Quinn,” Larue said. He didn’t wait for a response, continuing with, “What about the housekeeper?” He glanced down at the notes on his iPhone. “Roberta Hyson. She didn’t see or hear anyone in the house.”
“This is a big house,” Quinn reminded him. “And I’m not sure about her eyesight or her hearing.”
“Nice...I hope people are kind to you when you’re old one day.”
“I’m not being insulting. The woman is elderly—and she isn’t in this room, so she can’t be insulted.”
It was crazy. Crazy. Danni’s head was pounding. She stood; the men had forgotten her again, anyway.
“If there’s nothing else you need from me, I’m going home,” she said. Her voice sounded distant and a little shaky.
Once again, they both gave her their attention.
“Of course, Ms. Cafferty. If we need you, we know where to find you,” Larue said.
“You’re leaving? Just like that—after this?” Quinn frowned.
“Just like that,” she told him, nodding gravely.
She thought she’d made her escape when she walked out the front door, moved down the steps and past the two uniformed officers standing guard at the entry like carved sentinels.
But she’d barely reached the street when she heard him behind her. And she wasn’t surprised when he grabbed her arm.
She spun around, seething. “Let go of me, Mr. Quinn...Michael, whatever.”
He did, staring at her. She hated the fact that she felt compelled to stare back.
“It’s Quinn. Just Quinn.” He paused. “I guess Angus didn’t talk to you. Either that, or you’re an ice-cold functioning psychopath who couldn’t care less about the lives of others.”
“My father had tremendous patience for people with mental problems. However, I don’t. So leave me alone, or I’ll shout for that friend of yours who’s still in the house.”
He shook his head, disgusted. With her. That seemed doubly galling.
And yet she still felt guilty. Gladys Simon was dead.
But what could she have done? She’d never seen the woman before that day!
To her horror, she blurted out, “It wasn’t my fault!”
She thought he’d lash out at her and insist that it certainly had been her fault.
“No, it was mine,” he said, and she realized he was inwardly kicking himself. For some reason, he seemed to believe that if she’d understood the situation, she might have magically saved the day. “It was my fault. I realize now that Angus never really said anything to you and neither did Billie. There are things you need to understand...but right now, we have to get that bust back.”
“We?” she said horrified. “Look, you don’t even know that Gladys didn’t stash it in the house somewhere. Maybe it wasn’t stolen. Like Larue said, you make everything more complicated.”
As if Quinn had somehow hired him to play a part, Detective Larue appeared on the front porch.
“Quinn!” he called.
“Yeah?”
“We need some help. You were right. The housekeeper didn’t hear a thing—but a window was taken out on the ground level, garage side. The glass was cut out, eased to the ground by some kind of suction device.”
Quinn nodded slowly.
“Still doesn’t mean the bust is gone. Where did she keep it?” Larue asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been here until today. But I’m pretty sure it was kept in the house. When Hank Simon bought it, he was convinced he’d made the buy of the century.”
“The den—or the salon,” Danni heard herself volunteer. Quinn turned to face her. “She said something in the store about trying to throw it away, trying to bury it, but it kept showing up back in... I’m not sure of the exact word she used, but someplace like an office, den, salon.”
“We’ve checked out Hank Simon’s office,” Larue said.
“There’s a library, but it’s not in there,” Quinn said. “I looked when we got here and were trying to find Gladys.”
Larue motioned to one of the uniformed officers standing by. “As soon as the M.E. retrieves the body and the forensic unit’s finished, I want a more extensive search of the house. Go through closets, bathrooms—everywhere.”
The officer cleared his throat. “What does the bust look like?” he asked. “The house is filled with antiques and bric-a-brac.”
“It’s carved marble. Head, neck and shoulders. Curly hair, classic features. It’s been described as portraying the face of an angel—or a demon. Some say the eyes are demonic, that they seem to be watching you. It was sculpted with a mantle over the shoulders and at a certain angle the mantle can appear to be angel wings,” Quinn told him. “It looks like it belongs in a dé Medici tomb.”
“A dé Medici tomb? Would that be a tomb in one of the St. Louis cemeteries, Lafayette up in the Garden District or out in Metairie?” the officer asked.
“There are no dé Medici tombs around here. No, what I’m saying is that it looks Roman—like something you’d see in a Renaissance church or tomb,” Quinn said.
The officer made a slightly derisive sound. He quieted as Quinn scowled at him. “Sorry, Detective Quinn.”
“I’m not on the force anymore. I’m just Quinn. I’m simply telling you how it’s been described,” Quinn added.
“Head, neck and shoulders—it didn’t get up and walk out, then,” Larue said sardonically.
“No, I don’t think it’s supposed to be able to walk,” Quinn said with equal sarcasm.
Danni wanted to go home. She wanted the day to rewind; she wished she’d never met—and failed—Gladys Simon, and that Michael Quinn had never darkened her door.
“You going to help in the search?” Quinn asked her.
No!
But the way he looked at her...
What was she going to do? Go home and wallow in guilt?
Not fair! She really had no idea what was going on.
She didn’t want to agree. She opened her mouth to say no.
What came out was, “Sure. You don’t think you’re going to find it, though, do you?”
“Nope,” he said. “But what the hell—we can’t be certain it’s missing until we do a thorough search.”
“What about...Gladys? I don’t know how to investigate. I’ll leave fingerprints all over. The crime scene people won’t want us messing things up.”
He grinned and reached into his pocket, producing a wad of balled-up plastic. It proved to be several pairs of gloves. “Not to mention the fact that our fingerprints are already all over the place because we were trying to find her.”
She snatched gloves from him and put them on. As they returned to the house, Larue said to Quinn, “I’m assuming you have some idea of where to look for this bust or statue or whatever if it’s not here?”
“No, not really,” Quinn replied. “But I’ll try to get a lead on it.”
“And if not?”
“If not...” He paused for a minute. His eyes slipped over Danni but she wasn’t sure he was really seeing her.
“If not?” Larue asked.
“If not, I’m afraid we’ll be following a trail of bodies....”
Chapter Three
THERE WAS REALLY no hurry to search for the statue; Quinn knew it was gone.
Just as he knew Gladys Simon had hanged herself.
So there was no reason to interrupt the work of the crime scene unit and the M.E., Ron Hubert, who came to examine the body of the deceased.
Dr. Hubert arrived as they walked back toward the house, the crime scene unit directly behind him.
Quinn was afraid he’d lose Danni while they waited for the forensic team to finish. When Larue called him up to the attic to speak with the M.E., he pulled her along with him. She was reluctant, but she felt the same sense of guilt over Gladys’s death as he did, so she followed him.
Hubert was on his knees by the body. Hubert, who was a good man and a good forensic pathologist, had been there through the worst of the city’s tragedies, dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and the summer of storms and violence that flared in the wake of it. People were bitter, drug lords ignored the police, and the force was at its most vulnerable. Somehow, through the tragedy and carnage he’d seen, Hubert had never lost his empathy for the living or the dead. He’d lived in New Orleans since childhood but his family came from Minnesota, and he had the pale blond hair and pale blue eyes that indicated a Nordic background. He was sixty-plus years of age now, deceptively thin—and still strong. Quinn had seen him easily maneuver bodies that were five times his own size.
“See how the rope is tied?” Hubert asked as Quinn entered the room and knelt beside him. He pointed to the rope. “It’s quite awkwardly tied—an inexperienced hand. The way it’s situated tells me that she tied the rope herself, hoisted it over the support beam there and used that crate to stand on. There’s not a mark on her to say she struggled with anyone. I’ll see if there are any hairs, fibers, what have you, on the body, of course, but my preliminary exam suggests she did this to herself.” He looked at Quinn. “Don’t that beat all? A thief breaks in—but she kills herself. However, unless I can prove that beyond a doubt, he’ll probably go up for murder as well as breaking and entering and theft.”
“Can you prove it beyond a doubt?” Quinn asked him.
“I can certainly testify to the likelihood. Poor woman. The loss of her husband was obviously too much for her. I’m sorry to see her like this. The Simon family contributed to many charities. They doled out help right and left after the storms.”