Quinn regretted the fact that he was too tired to sit in his TV room, with the dog lying next to him, and watch reruns of a few of the games he’d missed.
Wolf whined as if he understood. “Let me check your food and water.”
He went back to the kitchen. There weren’t any messes in the house—despite his size, Wolf had a dog door he could shimmy through. Quinn also had a constant-flow water bowl for him and a feeder that would keep food coming for up to five days.
It was a big feeder for a big dog, taking up the space of a small refrigerator.
With the food and water situation fine, Quinn gave the dog a few bacon treats and told him, “Sorry, old boy, need some sleep.”
He trudged up to his room. Wolf followed, but curled into his dog bed in the hall, apparently glad that his master was home and happy just to take up his work as sentinel.
Quinn stripped on his way to the bath, strewing his clothing, socks and shoes along the floor. He turned on the water and appreciated its pure, clean feel as he stepped beneath the shower.
His mind went mercifully blank.
Sleep came quickly when he hit the bed. He wasn’t plagued by dreams of his former life, the strange occurrence at his “death,” the stranger who’d reappeared, his time in the service or on the force. He slept deeply.
He was awakened, he didn’t know how much later, by Wolf’s barking. Then he realized he’d been hearing a rhythmic sound in his sleep. Someone was pounding at his door. Wolf was letting this person know that his or her presence was being noted.
He rose, pulled on his jeans and hurried downstairs. Wolf stood in the doorway in his on-guard position.
Quinn looked out the peephole, a little shocked by the identity of his visitor.
Danni Cafferty had come to him.
* * *
The dog was enormous. Wolf, dog, whatever—it was enormous. Quinn was a tall man and his arm was bent as it rested on the dog’s head when he opened the door.
Danni was an animal lover, but even so, she took a step back.
“He won’t hurt you. He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Quinn said. “Unless I told him to.”
“How encouraging,” she murmured. “May I come in?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” Quinn’s mind seemed to be moving a little slowly. But then, it was pretty obvious she’d just woken him up. His hair was tousled, his feet were bare—and his chest was, too. She couldn’t help noticing that he had a few scars crossing his tanned flesh, his shoulders, chest and abdomen. She also couldn’t help noticing that he looked as well muscled and wiry as a triathalon athlete.
“Um, want coffee?”
“Sure, it’s almost evening. Coffee sounds fine,” she said dryly.
“She’s good, Wolf, she’s good.” Quinn opened the door.
“Wolf?” she asked.
“That’s his name.”
“Well, of course it is,” she said, stepping inside.
The dog—or wolf—whined, nudging her fingers with his massive nose. She stroked his ears. He wagged his tail and followed her as she walked through the house.
She was surprised by the neat and handsome appearance of his parlor. There were all manner of period artifacts about, glass-encased memorabilia in nineteenth-century bookcases and nicely framed portraits and images on the walls. Quinn, however, didn’t pay attention to her observation of his living quarters; he was headed straight down a hallway, the dog at his heels. When she hesitated, Wolf came back for her, nudging her hands, leading the way.
“You’re not afraid of the dog, are you?” Quinn called back to her.
“No. I love dogs. Except I think this one is actually a horse,” she said.
“Are you afraid of horses?”
“No.”
“Then you should be okay.”
Danni raised her brows but Quinn wasn’t waiting for her response. She could tell he was tired and cranky and, since his disposition didn’t seem to be the friendliest when he wasn’t tired and cranky, she simply followed him to the kitchen.
Again, she was surprised. The room had a traditional quality with a display of copper pots and pans over a hardwood island, but the appliances were modern and everything was shining and clean.
“Nice,” she said.
He eyed her from beneath a strand of hair that fell over his brow. “You were expecting a hovel with piles of clothing, leftover pizza boxes and roaches?”
“No, I just didn’t realize P.I.s lived so well. Oh—that’s right. You have a trust fund.”
“Yeah, and I got the house for a steal,” he told her. “So to speak. And Chessy cleans for me.”
“Ah, your girlfriend? Is she sleeping? I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to wake you. Oh, hell, that’s not true. I don’t care if I woke you. You walked in and turned my world upside down yesterday.”
“Chessy is my housekeeper. She’s not sleeping, or at least, not here. And I didn’t turn your world upside down. It was already upside down—you just didn’t know it.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s see. It’s Wednesday. Chessy comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She’s worth her weight in gold. In fact, I work so I can afford to pay Chessy. She’s the best.”
“Apparently.”
“What would you like?” he asked. “It’s a pod machine—pick a coffee, pop it in, close it and you have coffee.”
“I’ve seen them.” She moved toward it to make a selection from the little “coffee tree” next to the machine. She found something marked bold and popped it into the machine. He supplied her with milk from the refrigerator.
“Sugar? Or fake stuff?”
“Neither, thanks.”
He stood close to her. He smelled clean, as though he was fresh from a shower, which, of course, he wasn’t. She’d woken him. They were standing close together in the kitchen and he was half-naked. It reminded her that he was quite a striking physical specimen—even if he was capable of being rude, arrogant...and confusing. He chose a coffee pod himself and brewed it, then looked at her.
“Grab your coffee. We’ll sit in the playroom,” he said.
The term startled her but he ignored her reaction, moving through a doorway to the room behind the kitchen.
The term he’d used had made her envision a plush, red padded room with sex toys on the walls.
Bad, Danni. The “playroom” was filled with comfortable chairs and couches, a huge television and racks of books, CDs, DVDs, old vinyl records and games. Some video games, but mostly old board games such as Life, Risk, Cranium and Scrabble.
He fell into one of the leather-covered old armchairs, leaving her the matching couch next to him. He sat back, stretching his legs and lifting his feet onto the trunk-turned-coffee-table between them.
“So, what brings you here?” he asked.
“The bust, of course.”
“How did you find me?”
“You’re in the phone book.”
“Oh. Right.” He sipped his coffee and seemed to savor the taste. “Good stuff,” he murmured. “Bold, but freshly brewed. Not burned.”
“Are you interested in what I have to say?” she asked, exasperated. Then she started as Wolf jumped up beside her, and just managed to catch the dollop of coffee that sloshed out of her cup. Tail wagging, the dog set his nose on her lap.
“He likes you,” Quinn said. “You’re lucky.”
“I’m sure he likes lots of people.”
“No, he tolerates anyone I ask him to tolerate. He likes you. He’s a good judge of character, so maybe you’re not as bad as I was beginning to think.”
She was tempted to get up and leave.
Then she remembered seeing Gladys swinging from the rope up in her attic.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a dog, so I can’t hope for a creature to improve your man
ners and position in my mind,” she said sweetly. “Do you want my information or not?”
“Yeah.”
“The bust has quite a history.”
“That’s what you came to tell me?”
“You know a lot about it, but do you know the whole story?”
“Share it with me, if you’d be so kind.”
She took a sip of her coffee, set the cup down and told him everything she’d read. He was silent for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep on her.
“Doesn’t make any sense, really,” he finally said, opening his eyes. “The way to ‘kill’ a ghost is usually to burn the bones. If he was cremated...there are no bones to burn.”
“What about ghosts?” Danni asked.
“Have you read that book yet?”
She frowned. “How do you know about the book, anyway? What do you know about the book?”
“It’s a manual. A manual that your father inherited from his father—and I have no idea where it came from before that. It had obviously crossed the ocean at least once.”
“How well did you know my father?” she demanded.
Quinn was silent again. “My dad is an interesting man. He’s spiritual but not actually religious—says too many people kill in the name of God. But he managed, years ago, to become best friends with a priest named Father Ryan. Ryan kept my parents sane when I was in the hospital and I flatlined, and then Father Ryan became a friend of mine, too. He’s not your average priest. He was also friends with your father. I’ve done tracking for your dad, and your dad has done tracking for me. Once, he helped me find a child—he saved that child’s life.” He didn’t speak for a minute. “He would call me. I would call him. I loved Angus. Never met a man who was so passionate about the goodness that could be found in people—and so passionate about protecting the innocent. I told him once he was a hero. His response was that if heroes existed, they were quiet men who might be afraid themselves, but because they were afraid, they knew they had to act.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I asked him once where he got his information, since a lot of it was pretty far-fetched, and he said he had the book. This is an old book, and when it’s read correctly, it can give all kinds of information.”
“It’s very old, of course, but it’s like something out of the Dark Ages....”
“No. Uh-uh.”
“Oh, please! Come on. Innocent people the world over were persecuted because people believed in demons and witches and dancing with the devil. They were tortured and burned and hanged and... It’s all a crock!”
He leaned forward, staring into her eyes. Again, he was close—so close she couldn’t help being aware of him as a man. But there was nothing teasing or seductive in the way he looked at her. He was deadly serious.
“Yes, the innocent have suffered because of the ignorance, stupidity or superstitions of others. But think about it! If you really had any kind of power, would you just let yourself be tortured, burned, hanged? No. Anyone with real power escaped persecution, while the innocent died horrible deaths.” He paused, breathing in, agitated. He shook his head. “God, I loved Angus! He was outstanding. But I’m shocked that he didn’t tell you any of this!”
There was passion in his words—and sincerity when he spoke about her father. There also seemed to be shock and painful regret that Angus hadn’t told her about his...outside activities.
This was all still impossible to believe.
He studied her. “Why do you think, say, the people in Salem died? They wouldn’t claim to be what they weren’t. They couldn’t come down from a hanging tree because they weren’t practicing black magic. Half the terror spent on innocents in the world has always come from real fear—and the other half comes from power grabs, pure evil or the greed of others.” He paused. “Danni, you believe there’s good in the world, right? Goodness in people’s hearts? That they’re capable of acts of strength and charity in times of trial and desperation?”
“I believe most people are basically good, yes....”
“Where there’s good, there’s evil,” he said. “Yin and yang.”
The dog whined and she absently stroked his fur. “You’re trying to tell me the statue is evil,” she said.
“I’m telling you it carries evil.”
“You’re really asking me to accept a lot.”
“I can’t see Russia or China right now—but they’re there. Whether or not you believe anything I tell you doesn’t matter. Because situations can exist whether you believe in them or not. Whether you even know about them or not.” He shook his head again. “You saw Gladys Simon,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but isn’t it possible that people create things in their minds? Salem, for example. The accused were supposedly dancing with the devil in the woods. The accusers claimed they were being pinched or bitten or whatever. Everyone believed them and it turned into mass hysteria. If you’ve got something in your mind, it can become real.”
“You can look at it that way if it makes you happy. Here’s the thing—whoever gets this bust believes it either makes them kill others...or themselves.”
“All right, so Gladys believed it killed her husband. And in that belief and in her terrible grief, she killed herself.”
“Yes. And the hood sitting in jail awaiting trial—Vic Brown. He had the statue before selling it to Hank Simon. He shot down three rival gang members in cold blood. Not over money—they didn’t know he had any. Vic wasn’t the nicest guy in the world. But to the best of my knowledge, he has no other murder raps on his record. I went to see him. That’s how I found out the bust was out there, causing havoc. The press was everywhere when he was arrested and there are a few seconds of news video in which he’s shouting that he’s not a killer, the bust made him do it,” Quinn said. “You want more coffee? I’m having some. I’m working on—” he checked his watch “—about four hours of sleep.”
“I didn’t sleep much, either, thank you very much,” Danni said.
“Ah, but I didn’t wake you up.”
“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
He didn’t take offense at that; he grinned. “So, another coffee?”
She nodded and followed him back to the kitchen. This time she noted that the latticed windows could be opened to the “playroom.”
She imagined that a century and a half ago, someone had entertained lavishly at this house. She could close her eyes and picture the swirl of antebellum skirts—minus the fifty-two-inch television screen, of course.
They both had a second coffee. Wolf, apparently thinking he should have another wake-me-up, as well, let out a bark and wagged his tail.
“All right, one more of these bacon things, but that’s it,” Quinn said. “You’ll lose that fullback figure of yours with too many treats.”
“What does he weigh?”
“Not that much, really. There are heavier dogs. He comes in at about one-thirty.”
“Wow, handsome, we weigh about the same!” Danni told the dog.
“He’s a good boy,” Quinn said, looking at her. He hesitated a minute. “Your father helped me when I first got him.”
“Really?”
“We were together in El Paso.”
She lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see the mix of emotions she was feeling. Quinn was telling the truth about her father. She remembered his explanation about a buying trip to El Paso a few years back. She hadn’t given it much thought at the time; she’d been busy. It wasn’t easy, breaking into the art world.
For a moment, she felt guilty again, and angry because she felt guilty. She’d been a good daughter—loving her father all her life. She’d worked hard in school. She’d known that she loved art and she’d assisted her dad at the shop...with everything, or so she’d assumed.
She didn’t look at Quinn. “How did my dad help you
?”
“Wolf was with a K-9 unit. He was shot, and they were going to have to put him down but I wanted to keep him. Your dad came to the vet with me, learned what I had to do to keep him alive after his surgery and got a friend with a private plane to fly us back here.” He was silent once again. He couldn’t have been studying her this time because her head was down as she petted the dog. “Wolf loved your father. Maybe he senses something of Angus in you.”
“Maybe,” Danni agreed.
She stood, changing the subject. “So I take it you didn’t find the bust last night.”
“I found where it had been. A thief stole it from our thief, leaving him and a prostitute dead.”
She stared at him. “Two more people are dead?”
He nodded gravely. “I was down in the Ninth Ward most of the night, and then at the police station with Larue. Luckily, the bigwigs are seeing all of this as one case and making him lead detective, no matter where the dead show up.”
“Larue seems to like you,” Danni said.
“Oddly enough, some people do.”
She straightened. “So...what are your plans?”
“Stay on the hunt until I find the bust.”
“Do you know the thief who stole it from the first thief?” she asked.
He looked disgustedly down at his coffee. “No. I have some names. The sad thing is, a great family is living right next to the house where Leroy Jenkins—the drug-dealing thief who took the bust from the Simon house—and Ivy Hunter, his quote unquote girlfriend, were living. Really nice couple of kids in that house, living next door to a crack house. But the father’s fighting for his home and hoping to make it a decent neighborhood one day. They weren’t acquainted with any of Leroy’s junkie friends or buyers. But we did come across a woman down the road—old woman, just trying to keep her head above water—who watched the place. She gave me a list of street names to check out. I was going to start as soon as I got some sleep.”
“Did my information about the history of the bust help you?” she asked.
He bent his head, then raised it to smile at her. “Yes, thank you. Anything we know is an improvement. But I can’t figure out why the evil, the spirit of evil—or as you would have it, the perception of evil—persists if this young Italian count was cremated. That’s what I meant about how it doesn’t make sense.”