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Waking the Dead
Heather Graham
They say a painting can have a life of its own…In the case of Ghosts in the Mind by Henry Sebastian Hubert, that's more than just an expression. This painting is reputed to come to life–and to bring death. The artist was a friend of Lord Byron and Mary Shelley, joining them in Switzerland during 1816, "the year without a summer." That was when they all explored themes of horror and depravity in their art….Now, almost two hundred years later, the painting appears in New Orleans. Wherever it goes, death seems to follow.Danielle Cafferty and Michael Quinn, occasional partners in solving crime, are quickly drawn into the case. They begin to make connections between that summer in Switzerland and this spring in Louisiana. Danni, the owner of an eccentric antiques shop, and Quinn, a private detective, have discovered that they have separate but complementary talents when it comes to investigating unusual situations.Trying to blend their personal relationship with the professional lives they've stumbled into, they learn how much they need each other. Especially as they confront this work of art–and evil. The people in the portrait might be dead, but something seems to wake them and free them to commit bloody crimes. Cafferty and Quinn must discover what that is. And they have to destroy it–before it destroys them.


They say a painting can have a life of its own…
In the case of Ghosts in the Mind by Henry Sebastian Hubert, that’s more than just an expression. This painting is reputed to come to life—and to bring death. The artist was a friend of Lord Byron and Mary Shelley, joining them in Switzerland during 1816, “the year without a summer.” That was when they all explored themes of horror and depravity in their art.…
Now, almost two hundred years later, the painting appears in New Orleans. Wherever it goes, death seems to follow.
Danielle Cafferty and Michael Quinn, occasional partners in solving crime, are quickly drawn into the case. They begin to make connections between that summer in Switzerland and this spring in Louisiana. Danni, the owner of an eccentric antiques shop, and Quinn, a private detective, have discovered that they have separate but complementary talents when it comes to investigating unusual situations.
Trying to blend their personal relationship with the professional lives they’ve stumbled into, they learn how much they need each other. Especially as they confront this work of art—and evil. The people in the portrait might be dead, but something seems to wake them and free them to commit bloody crimes. Cafferty and Quinn must discover what that is. And they have to destroy it—before it destroys them.
Also by HEATHER GRAHAM
THE NIGHT IS FOREVER
THE NIGHT IS ALIVE
THE NIGHT IS WATCHING
LET THE DEAD SLEEP
THE UNSEEN
THE UNHOLY
THE UNSPOKEN
THE UNINVITED
AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS
THE EVIL INSIDE
SACRED EVIL
HEART OF EVIL
PHANTOM EVIL
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
* * * * *
Look for Heather Graham’s next novel
THE CURSED
available soon from Harlequin MIRA
Waking the Dead
Heather Graham


www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
In memory of my in-laws, Angelina Mero Pozzessere and
Alphonse Pozzessere, who first introduced me to
Massachusetts, wonderful Italian food—and the historic
and incredible city of Salem.
And to Dee Mero Law, George Law, Doreen Law Westermark,
John Westermark, Kenneth Law, Bill, Eileen and Eddie Staples,
and “Auntie Tomato,” Gail Astrella.
Thanks for the very strange, fun and quite incredible road trips to Salem!
Contents
Prologue (#u414736cd-c1f2-5f56-8d43-44d07cba14b6)
Chapter One (#uef7d95de-1666-5ddc-bf4e-516232276806)
Chapter Two (#u11cf472b-9bd8-52f4-a382-20e87d68ef37)
Chapter Three (#u885be401-ab3c-5176-8b63-610dd95d689b)
Chapter Four (#u69aea019-48a5-5a5d-90c4-27516527876f)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
June 1816
The Shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland
LIGHTNING FLASHED, CREATING a jagged streak in the angry purple darkness that had become the sky—day and night at once, or so it seemed.
Henry Sebastian Hubert hunched his shoulders against the strange chill that permeated the evening. The sky’s darkness was never-ending; the rain and the cold were foreboding. He’d heard that in America, there had been June snow in some of the northern states. Here, in Geneva, it always seemed dark, damp and wretchedly cold—but certainly no worse than it had been in England.
Another twisted arrow of light slashed across the eerie black sky, illuminating the lawn that stretched before the lake. Percy Shelley, Claire and Mary Godwin, and George, Lord Byron had arrived. Mary was calling herself Mary Shelley on this Continental jaunt but Shelley had a legal wife in England. Claire—well, Claire was Claire. He could hear her laughter as they approached, high-pitched and sounding rather forced.
The young woman tried so hard. She’d been Byron’s lover in London, and did not seem to understand that Byron sought nothing more permanent. But through Claire, Byron had met Shelley, and his admiration for Shelley was complete and enthusiastic. And among their foursome, Claire was the only one who spoke French decently, making her a definite asset.
Henry was enamored of them all. “There they come,” he said aloud. “The brilliant, the enchanted.”
Behind him, he heard a strange sound and turned. Raoul Messine, the butler who’d come with the castle, was also looking toward the water.
“You were about to speak?” Henry demanded.
“No, monsieur. It is not my place.”
Henry stared at him. Messine was thin as a stick; he had a pinched face and resembled a skeleton in black dress wear. He had served the late Lord Alain Guillaume and, Henry had been assured, was the finest servant to be found. Of course, Lord Guillaume had been a hedonist—and some said that Raoul Messine provided him with any pleasure his heart desired. Alain Guillaume had met with an early grave, drawing his sword against authorities who’d been sent to search for a missing servant. Afterward, Messine had properly interred his master in the castle’s crypt. Henry had rented the castle from the lord’s son, Herman, who had moved to London years before his father’s death and preferred to remain there. Apparently, the son had taken after his mother and had no interest in his father’s cruel pleasures.
Messine suited the dreary stone walls of the castle, blackened with growth and age.
“Speak—as if it were your place!” Henry insisted.
Messine shrugged. “The depraved,” he said. There was something strange about the man’s eyes. He said the word depraved as if it were a compliment.
To Henry, both the word and the tone seemed odd coming from a man who had served the likes of Lord Guillaume. Unless he’d enjoyed serving his master—and perhaps taking part in his exploits? Henry didn’t know yet, but he was curious.
“They simply discard convention, my dear fellow. That is all,” Henry said. “They have great minds and great imaginations!”
“Indeed, sir, and you are their equal—with your paintbrush,” Messine told him.
Hubert wasn’t sure he could begin to equal the brilliance of Shelley in any measure, but he was grateful that the man had come with his interesting party of guests.
A moment later, those guests dragged their small rowboat ashore—Claire still laughing. Covering their heads with shawls and jackets despite the fact that they were already drenched, the four of them ran toward the great gates to the small, fortified castle Henry had rented.
The House of Guillaume was nothing like the beautiful Villa Diodati Lord Byron had taken near the water, nor did it in any way resemble the massive and beautiful Castle Chillon across the lake. Originally built during the Dark Ages, around 950 AD, when the area had been under the control of the Holy Roman Empire, the castle had drafty halls. The rooms were small and sparse and only one place, the south tower room, gave him enough light to paint. It was a wretched rental, but at least the enclosure no longer housed farm animals. But Guillaume offered four strong walls, four towers and a small courtyard that led to a keep with a majestic hall and a number of usable rooms. As long as Henry’s servants kept fires burning constantly, it was bearable.
And, most important, he had lured George, Lord Byron, here—along with Percy Bysshe Shelley and his young lover, Mary Godwin. The party also included Mary’s stepsister, Claire, who had surely come in hopes of regaining her place as Lord Byron’s mistress, and the striking young John Polidori, a writer of sorts himself, but hired by Lord Byron as his personal physician.
What made the castle an exceptional choice despite its discomforts was the impression it allowed him to give others—that he was a moody artist making his name in the avant-garde world, where the dark side of human nature, religion and science were intriguing the finest minds of his day.
Thanks to family money, he could afford this place. Nothing better, perhaps—but the castle sufficed.
“Henry!” Claire was the first to greet him, running to where he stood at the gates, throwing herself in his arms. She was soaked and didn’t care in the least that she dampened him, as well.
He gave her the mandatory hug and stepped back. “Welcome!” he called cheerfully as they ran up. “Welcome, welcome, get under the portcullis, my friends, and we’ll make a dash for the house! I’m so glad you’ve arrived!”
“Did you doubt us, dear fellow?” George asked, giving him a hug, as well. The hug was enthusiastic; he wasn’t sure if George was testing him. Lord Byron enjoyed outrageous behavior, although he toned it down in London, lest his words not receive the respect they deserved when he voiced his opinions in the House of Lords. He was often condemned for his poetry, ostracized by society—and yet his political rhetoric sometimes held sway.
“We’re delighted to see you, Henry,” Mary said. She had such a sweet smile. While she’d chosen the bohemian lifestyle—running off to the Continent with Shelley when he was legally married to another woman—there was still a sense of charm and old-fashioned morality about Mary. Henry was in love with her himself, he realized. “Any outing is exciting these days,” she went on. “The weather is so very dreary.”
“Yes, man, and we’re quite frozen solid,” Percy said, slipping his arms around Mary and grinning at Henry. “You’ve a fire, I believe.”
“A big fire, and a great deal of delicious, mulled brandy,” Henry promised. Messine had already sent two other servants down to the lake. They’d gather his guests’ luggage from the boat.
Henry greeted Polidari, who was bringing up the rear, carrying his own bag.
“It will be good that I am a physician, since we’ll all be catching our deaths of cold!” Polidari told them.
They raced across what had once been the inner courtyard and was now the only courtyard that led to the giant double doors and the hall. Raoul Messine was there, and he held the doors open for them, handing warmed towels to the sodden guests as they made their way in. Henry followed last, closing the great doors as he entered. Mary was already before the fire, wrapped in the towel, a delicate tendril of damp hair resting upon her pale cheek. At least the hearth was massive and the fire burned warmly. But even with the fire and the many lamps set in sconces around the hall, the castle seemed dark, shadowed, forbidding.
“I love this glorious and faded homage to a day gone past!” Byron announced. He dried his hair as he looked around. “Ah, suits of armor standing guard, macabre paintings of lords and ladies long dead, shadows here, there, everywhere. How fitting that we should come here to work, old friend, for you’ve heard of the task we’ve undertaken?”
“Ghost stories,” Henry replied.
Shelley nodded. “We are to create creatures of the eerie darkness within our souls, faces so horrid that not even a mother could give them love...scenes so terrifying that none may escape. Mary had a dream—she’s writing her dream. I’ll take that brandy, Henry, my friend. Brandy has a way of setting the mind to sights within it!”
“Henry, you must write a story,” Mary said. She touched the edge of one of the swords on the wall and said, “Ouch! Oh, indeed, these remain ready for battle!”
“Ah, my love, this was a fortified castle in the Dark Ages—filled with torture and screams!” Shelley teased her, taking her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“Just a drop,” Mary insisted. “Nothing of concern.”
“Blood! Ah, as this great ruined hulk of an old edifice deserves. Or so we would say in our stories!” Byron said.
“They’ve got me working on one,” Polidori told Henry. “You, too, must be seduced into the madness of this circle.”
Claire whirled around the hall before the fire. Her clothing was still sodden and clung to her form, tempting the eye, and yet, Henry thought, Lord Byron seemed displeased rather than tempted. Of course, he’d heard that Byron would bed anyone who was pretty enough and that he tired of his conquests—male and female—as quickly as he enjoyed them.
“Henry is an artist!” Claire said. “George Byron, you paint with words. Henry uses a brush.”
Byron pushed by Claire to stand near Mary and Shelley. “Yes, indeed,” he declared. “Henry is a true artist. And he must join us in our madness, and while we create stories of normal circumstances suddenly distorted, out of focus, corrupted by monsters, he must do so on a canvas!” Byron paused to kiss the finger Mary had pricked and met her eyes. “He must paint with rich colors and darkness—as we do with words. Ah, yes, he must paint...with the color of blood!”
They were asking him to join their private yet so privileged adventure.
“It’s a challenge I should love!” Henry assured the group.
“What shall he paint? Oh, what shall he paint?” Mary asked.
“He need but gaze around this castle,” Shelley said. “There, above the fire! That old baron looks like a skeleton ready to step out of the portrait and into this very room. And there—the way those figures hold the armor, as if they could come back to life and cut down everyone before them. Ah, the tapestry with the saints bending down to succor the lepers! Those poor, vile afflicted beings could run wild in starvation, and rip the damsels helping them asunder.”
“The swords above the fire!” Claire exclaimed.
“The gauze curtains,” Mary said. “I see in them a ghost.”
“A creature that rises from the sea or falls from the heavens?” Byron asked. “A tree being, with skeletal fingers that reach out to entangle in a young girl’s hair...and curl around her throat? What kind of monster, Henry, shall you paint?”
Henry smiled. “I shall paint deceit—and with it, the worst monster I can conjure up.”
“And what will that be?” Polidori asked.
“Man,” Henry told them. “The depth and darkness and depravity of the human soul. I shall let the very devil into my heart and mind, and he shall teach me!”
“Ah, wickedness. Wickedness is in the mind!” Mary declaimed. “And the soul that is bathed in blood!”
Beyond the castle walls, lightning struck again. The fury of the thunder that followed caused the very earth to tremble.
“Then, dearest Mary, I shall paint with blood,” he promised. “And with all the dark despair that ever have lived within these walls. Yes, I shall paint with blood.”
Chapter One
THE HOUSE WAS off Frenchman Street, not a mansion and not derelict. It sat in a neighborhood of middle-class homes from which men and women went to work every day and children went off to school. The yard was well-kept but not overmanicured; the paint wasn’t peeling, but it was a few years old. In short, to all appearances, it was the average family home in the average family neighborhood.
Or had been.
Until a neighbor had spotted the body of the woman on the kitchen floor that morning and called the police. They’d entered the house and found a scene of devastating chaos.
Michael Quinn hadn’t been among the first to arrive. He wasn’t a cop, not anymore. He was a private investigator and took on clients, working for no one but himself. However, he maintained a friendly relationship with the police. It was necessary—and, in general, made life a hell of a lot easier.
It also brought about mornings like this, when Jake Larue, his ex-partner, called him in, which was fine, since he was paid a consultant’s fee for his work with the police...and his personal pursuits could sometimes be expensive.
“You know, Quinn,” Jake said, meeting him outside, “I’ve seen bad times. The days after the storm, gang struggles in our city and the usual human cruelty every cop faces. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Jake—Detective Larue—was sent on the worst and/or most explosive cases in the city...or when something bordered on the bizarre.
Jake was good at his job. He was good at it, Quinn had long ago discovered, because he’d never thought of himself as the be-all and end-all. He took whatever help he could get, no matter where he got it. That was how cases were solved, and that was why he was willing to call Quinn.
Good thing he was back in the city, Quinn thought. He’d just arrived a few hours earlier. Danni didn’t even know he was back after his weeks in Texas—he’d meant to surprise her this morning.
Quinn looked curiously at the house. “Drug deal gone bad?” he asked. It didn’t seem like the type of home where such a thing happened, but there was no telling in that market.
“I’ll be damned if I know, but I doubt it. Get gloves and booties. We’re trying to keep it down to a small parade going through,” Larue said.
Quinn raised his brows. It was almost impossible to protect evidence from being compromised when that many people were involved. But Larue was a stickler; he’d set up a cordoned path to the porch. There were officers in the yard, and they were holding back the onlookers who’d gathered nearby. The van belonging to the crime scene techs was half on the sidewalk and cop cars crowded the streets, along with the medical examiner’s SUV. The only people who had passed him were wearing jumpsuits that identified them as crime scene investigators.
“Dr. Hubert is on,” Larue said.
Quinn liked Ron Hubert; he was excellent at his job and looked beyond the norm when necessary. He wasn’t offended when another test was suggested or when he was questioned. As he’d said himself, he was human; humans made mistakes and could overlook something important. His job was to speak for the dead, but hell, if the dead were whispering to someone else, that was fine with him.
“First things first, I guess. The entry hallway,” Larue said.
There was no way to avoid the body in the entry hall. The large man lay sprawled across the floor in death. Hubert was crouched by the body, speaking softly into his phone as he made notes.
“The victim is male, forty-five to fifty years. Time of death was approximately two hours ago or sometime between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. Cause of death appears to be multiple stab wounds, several of which on their own would prove fatal. Death seems to have taken place where the victim has fallen. There are abundant pools of blood in the immediate vicinity.” He switched off his phone, stopped speaking and glanced up. “Please watch out for the blood. The lab folks are busy taking pictures, but we’re trying to preserve the scene as best we can. Ah, Quinn, glad to see you here, son.” Pretty much anyone could be “son” to Dr. Ron Hubert. He was originally from Minnesota and his Viking heritage was apparent. His hair was whitening, but where it wasn’t white, it was platinum. His eyes were so pale a blue they were almost transparent. His dignity and reserve made him seem ageless, but realistically, Quinn knew he was somewhere in his mid-sixties.
“He was stabbed? Have you found the weapon?” Quinn asked.
“No weapons anywhere,” Larue answered. “This is—we believe but will confirm—Mr. James A. Garcia. His family has lived in the area since the nineteenth century. He inherited the house. He was a courier who worked for a specialty freight company.”
“The woman in the kitchen, we believe, is his wife, Andrea. It looks as if she was slashed by a sword,” Hubert said. “Make your tour quick, Detective,” he told Larue while nodding grimly at Quinn. “I need to get the bodies to the morgue.”
Quinn accompanied Larue to the kitchen. He couldn’t begin to determine the age of the victim there; only her dress and the length of her hair suggested that she’d been a woman. To say that a sword might have been used was actually a mild description; she looked like she’d been put through a meat slicer. Blood created a haphazard pattern on the old linoleum floor and they moved carefully to avoid it. “There’s more,” Larue told him, “and stranger.”
Upstairs, another body lay on a bed.
“Mr. Arnold Santander, Mrs. Garcia’s father, as far as we know. Shot.”
“Gun? Calibre?”
“Something that blew a hole in him the size of China. And there are two more.”
Another bedroom revealed a fourth body—this one bludgeoned to death. Quinn couldn’t even guess the sex, age or anything else about the remains on the bed.
“Maggie Santander, the wife’s mother,” Larue said.
The fifth body was downstairs by the back door. Compared to the others, it was in relatively good condition.
“This one is a family aunt—Mr. Garcia’s sister, Maria Orr. What I’ve been able to gather from the neighbors is that Maria Orr picked up the Garcia children to take them to school. She was the drop-off mom and Mrs. Garcia was the pickup mom. Maria often stopped by for a coffee after she took the kids to school and before heading to her job at a local market. Mrs. Garcia was a stay-at-home mom and looked after all the children in the afternoon.”
Quinn hunkered down by the body and gingerly moved the woman’s hair. He frowned up at Larue. “Strangled?”
“That’s Hubert’s preliminary finding, yes,” Larue replied.
Quinn stood. “No weapons anywhere in the house? The yard?”
“No. Obviously, the techs are still combing the house. I have officers out there questioning neighbors and going through every trash pile and dump in the vicinity and beyond. The city’s on high alert. I’m about to give a press conference—any words of wisdom for me before I cast everyone into a state of panic?”
One of Larue’s men, carefully picking his way around the corpse, heard the question and muttered, “Buy several big dogs and arm yourself with an Uzi?”
He was rewarded with one of Larue’s chilling stares. “All I need is a city full of armed and frightened wackos running around,” he said. “Quinn, what sort of vibe are you getting here? Anything?”
Quinn shrugged. “Was there any suggestion that they could have been into drugs or any other smuggling?”
“The poor bastard was a courier, a baseball coach, a deacon at his church. The mom baked apple pies. No, no drugs. And it sure as hell doesn’t look like one of them killed the others and then committed suicide.”
Quinn spoke to Larue, describing the situation as he understood it. “The grandparents were in bed—separate beds and rooms, but I’m assuming they were old and in poor health. The wife was cleaning up after breakfast, while the husband appeared to be about to leave the house. I think the aunt had just arrived and saw something—but didn’t make it out of the house. She was running for the rear door, I believe. You’d figure she’d be the one shot in the back, but she wasn’t. She was caught—and strangled. The different methods used to kill suggest there was more than one killer in here. What’s odd is that the blood pools seem to be where the victims died. No one tracked around any blood, and there are no bloody fingerprints on the walls, not that I can see. Yes, we have blood spatter—all over the walls.” He shook his head. “It should be the easiest thing in the world to catch this killer—or killers. He or she, they, should be drenched in blood. Except...your victim trying to escape via the back hallway was strangled. There’s no blood on her whatsoever, and you’d think that if the same person perpetrated all the murders, there’d be blood on her, as well. Unless she was killed first, but that’s unlikely. It looks like she was running away.”
“So, the bottom line is...”
“Based on everything I’m seeing, I’m going to suggest more than one killer,” Quinn said. “Still, they should be almost covered in blood—unless they wore some kind of protective clothing. Even then, you’d expect to find drops along the way. It seems that whoever did this killed each of these people where we found them—and then disappeared into thin air.”
Larue stared at him, listening, following his train of thought. “You didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know,” he argued.
“I’m not omniscient or a mind reader,” Quinn said.
“Yes, but—”
“Your men should be searching the city for people with any traces of blood on them. It should be impossible to create a bloodbath like this and not have it somewhere. And the techs need to keep combing the house for anything out of the ordinary.”
“This much hate—and nothing taken. Implies family, a disillusioned friend...or a psychopath who wandered in off the street. They say this kind of violence is personal, but there are plenty of examples to the contrary. To take a famous one, Jack the Ripper did a hell of a number on his last victim, Mary Kelly, and they believe that his victims were a matter of chance.”
“They were a ‘type,’” Quinn reminded him. “Jack went after prostitutes. What ‘type’ could this family have been? My suggestion is that you learn every single thing you can about these people. Maybe something was taken.”
“Nothing seems to have been disturbed. No drawers were open, no jewelry boxes touched.”
Quinn nodded, glancing at his former partner. Larue was in his late thirties, tall and lean with a steely frame, dark, close-cropped hair and fine, probing eyes. There were things he didn’t talk about; he was skilled at going on faith, and luckily, he had faith in Quinn.
“That’s why I called you,” Larue said. “I’m good at finding clues and in what I see.” He lowered his voice. “And you, old friend, are good at finding clues in what we don’t see. I’ll have all the information, every file, I can get on these bodies in your email in the next few hours. Hubert said he’ll start the autopsies as soon as he’s back in the morgue.”
“Mind if I walk the house again?” Quinn asked him. “There’s something I want to check out.”
“What’s that?”
“Like I said, I’m surprised more blood wasn’t tracked through the house. But what I do see leads back to James Garcia.”
“One would think—but you’re trying to tell me that James Garcia butchered his family—and came back to the hall to slash himself to ribbons?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I agree with you that it’s virtually out of the question. I’m just saying that the only blood trails there are lead back to him. There’s no weapon he could have done this with, so...that tells me someone else had to be in the house. They got to the second floor first and murdered the grandparents, headed down to the kitchen and killed the wife, then caught either the aunt or James Garcia. But you’ll note, too, that there’s no blood trail leading out through the doors. Like I said, whoever did this should have been drenched. It seems obvious, but surely someone would’ve noticed another person covered in blood. Yes, this is New Orleans—but we’re not in the midst of a crazy holiday with people wearing costumes and zombie makeup. And even if the killers were wrapped in a sheet or something protective, it’s hard to believe they could escape without leaving a trace.”
“What if they had a van or a vehicle waiting outside?” Larue asked.
“That’s possible. But still...I’d expect some drops or smudges as the killer headed out. I’m going to look around, okay?”
“Go for it—just keep your booties on and don’t interrupt any of my techs. Oh, and, Quinn?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank God you’re back.”
Quinn offered him a somber smile. “Glad you feel that way.”
He left Larue in the hallway, giving instructions to others, and supervising the scene and the removal of the bodies.
At first, Quinn found nothing other than what they’d already discovered. Of course, he was trying to stay out of the way of the crime scene unit. They were busiest in the house; he knew they’d inspected the garage but concentrated on the house, so he decided to concentrate on the garage.
He was glad he did. Because he came upon something he considered unusual.
It was in between two cans of house paint.
He picked up the unlabeled glass container and studied it for a long time, frowning.
There’d been something in it. The vial looked as if it had been washed, but...
There was a trace of red. Some kind of residue.
Blood? So little remained he certainly couldn’t tell; it would have to go to the evidence lockup and then get tested.
He hurried back in to hand it over to Grace Leon, Larue’s choice for head CSU tech when he could get her. She, too, studied the vial. “Thanks. We would’ve gotten to this, I’m sure. Eventually we would’ve gone through the garage. But...is it what I think it is?”
He smiled grimly. “We’ll have to get it tested. But my assumption is yes.”
* * *
The giclée—or computer-generated ink-jet copy—first drew one’s gaze from across the room because of its coloring and exquisite beauty.
Foremost in the image was a dark-haired gentleman leaning over a love seat where a beautiful woman in white lay half-inclined, reading. He could be seen mostly from the back, with only a hint of his profile visible, and he presented her with a flower. The scene evoked the type of mysticism and nostalgia that could be found in the work of the pre-Raphaelite painter John Waterhouse.
Movement, life, seemed to emerge from the image. It was complex; the viewer felt a sense of belonging in the scene, being part of a living environment.
Behind the love seat was a great hearth, like that in the hall of a medieval castle. Above the hearth was a painting of a medieval knight, sans helmet; to each side of the image were massive plaques that bore the coat of arms of the House of Guillaume, with crossed swords below each. To the left, a massive stone staircase went up to the second floor and to the right, a hallway leading to another region of the castle, presumably the kitchens. It was guarded by a pair of 1500s suits of armor, standing like sentinels. And yet it felt like a scene of modern—nineteenth-century modern, at least compared to the medieval background of the castle—bliss.
Near the couple, on a massive wooden table, a boy of about twelve and a girl of maybe eight engaged in a game of chess. On the floor, a smaller child played with a toy. The pigments used were striking—even in the print, which was a copy of the original. Crimsons were deep and used throughout; the castle was dark and shadowed but the shadows were tinged with the same crimson and offset by mauves and grays. The little girl’s clothing added a splash of blue. Just inside the giant doors to the far left in the painting, a silver-colored wolfhound barked as a proper butler opened the door to official-looking men about to make a call.
The allure of the courtly man and the beautiful woman first entranced the viewer. The scene was so lovely, so romantic.
The painting didn’t, at first glance, seem to fit the title chosen by the artist—Ghosts in the Mind.
But then, even as the viewer studied the beauty and serenity of the scene, his or her perception of it would begin to change. If he or she shifted to a slightly different angle, looked at the painting from a different perspective, the hidden details became evident.
Beneath her book, the woman held a dagger. While he offered a rose to the woman, the man concealed a pistol behind his back.
A closer look revealed that malevolent, cunning eyes gazed out from the helmets on the suits of armor, both of which stood on pedestals but with swords in their hands.
The chess pieces had faces, alive and screaming.
The child on the floor played with a guillotine. What had appeared to be roses strewn over rushes on the floor were dolls—and their decapitated heads.
“Danni! Danni Cafferty, how are you? And Wolf!”
Danielle Cafferty turned as Niles Villiers, owner of the Image Me This gallery, came toward her. Wolf, to her the world’s most impressive pet, was seated by her feet. He was about the size of a small freight train but Wolf and Niles knew each other and Niles didn’t so much as blink; well-behaved pets were welcome in his gallery.
And Wolf allowed himself to be petted and crooned to. He even thumped his tail for Niles.
“I love this dog, Danni,” Niles said. “But I thought he actually belonged to your friend, Quinn? Haven’t seen him around in a while.”
“He has business in Texas,” Danni explained. Niles looked at her a little sadly. “Too bad. I like that Quinn. Great guy. So the guy leaves you, but you get the dog?”
Danni started to protest; Quinn hadn’t left her. After the case involving the Renaissance bust and the cult that had nearly formed in the city—the case that had brought them together—they’d both been afraid they’d gotten too close too fast. As a result, they’d decided to move slowly.
Quinn had gone to Texas a month ago to help the force there. He’d done it before when asked by law enforcement friends—or friends of friends—in other places. Usually he was only gone a few days. This time it seemed he’d been gone forever. But he’d made a decision never to leave her without Wolf. There was no question; the dog would lay down his life for her.
“At least he’s an amazing dog!” Niles said.
“He sure is.”
Niles greeted her next with an encompassing hug. She accepted it warmly. Niles was not only a friend, he’d been kind and generous enough to let her show her own art at his gallery on Royal Street. Image Me This was just a block and a half down from her own antiques and curio store, The Cheshire Cat. “Thanks for coming today,” he said.
“You know me, Niles. List a gallery showing and I’ll be here.”
A waiter went by and Niles snagged two champagne flutes, giving one to her. “I did especially want you to come. You add an aura of the sleek and beautiful—of modern sophistication.”
Danni smiled at that. “Niles, you should’ve told me I was supposed to be sophisticated. I’d have worn something other than jeans.”
Niles waved a hand in the air. In a suit himself, he was extremely handsome, with his striking hazel eyes and olive skin. He was tall and slim, every inch the regal host. “My dear, even wearing a plastic garbage bag, you’d walk with an aura of mystery and class—and it doesn’t hurt that you have a wolf at your feet. People are looking at paintings, but they’re watching you, as well. And if you shop here, they’ll think it’s the place to buy.”
“Hmm. Thank you. However, I think most of the credit goes to Wolf,” Danni said. She set one hand on Wolf’s head. Sometimes people gave her a wide berth—they were afraid of the dog. But he was so well-mannered that they usually asked if they could pet him. Wolf was, when not fiercely defending his family, a truly loving dog. Even if he was part wolf, as his name suggested.
Niles took a step closer to her, sipping from his champagne glass. “I have some wonderful original oils at this show, and, of course, I’d love to sell them. But a house in Paris was recently authorized to create giclée copies of Ghosts in the Mind. They’re beautifully done, from the original, of course. Giclée is a way for people to own incredible works of art without having to rob banks or be millionaires themselves, and honestly, the quality is so good, it’s almost impossible to tell the copies from the original.”
Danni smiled. “That’s not entirely true. Yes, done well, they’re as exact as you can get, but prints still don’t compare to the real thing.”
“Okay, maybe not, but...they’re striking on a wall.”
“And you can sell a lot of giclée copies and make money and survive, and I’m all for it,” Danni assured him. “As long as the artist isn’t cheated.”
“Danni!”
“Oh, Niles, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He grinned back at her. “When are we going to have another show of your paintings?” He shuddered. “Now that horrible case with the cult is well behind you.”
Danni shrugged. She’d actually been working the past few weeks. Working on her painting—and on her life. It was barely a year ago that she’d discovered her father had led a secret existence before his death—and that she’d inherited not only his earthly goods, but his rather unearthly ones, as well.
Niles was referring, of course, to the case that focused on the bust of Pietro Miro. She’d known nothing about the nature of real evil when she’d first become entangled in that situation, and now she knew too much. Her father hadn’t just been a collector of the priceless and unusual; he’d also been a warrior of sorts, saving others from the forces of evil. It made her feel, at times, as though she was dreaming about an odd graphic novel in which she simultaneously played a role. Before that strange case last year, she would never have believed that evil—or the wicked intentions of others—could reside in an object like Pietro Miro’s marble bust.
“Sorry,” Niles said quickly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. That nasty mess with the cult wasn’t that long ago. And you were close to several people who turned out to be involved.”
“I’m fine. That’s all over. Billie, Bo Ray and I are doing well at the store,” Danni told him. “And I’m always grateful for your interest and support, Niles.”
“So. I have all these beautiful pieces in here—gorgeous street scenes, paintings of musicians so good you can practically hear them, the Mighty Mississippi, Jackson Square, the cemeteries and the French Quarter—and you head right over to the giclée of Ghosts in the Mind.” He raised his brows. “Back to your work for a minute. Let me remind you that we haven’t seen anything in almost a year.”
“I’ve been working. I don’t have anything ready yet,” Danni said.
“Well, let us know when you do. You’re good,” he added. “So is Mason. He just hasn’t had the chance he needs. But his time will come... Meanwhile we can admire the giclée. It is beautiful. At a distance. And everyone’s drawn in. Hubert was a talented artist, and this piece is different, even for him. He was fascinated by the dark side of things, but rarely did he come up with something that teased the eye with such exquisite beauty—only to display such wickedness in the, er, details?”
Danni nodded. “His Weeping Angel at Dusk is sad and dark, I guess, but very beautiful.”
“You know something about the artist, right?”
“I was an art major, remember? I don’t know too much, and he didn’t paint that many pieces, since he died so young. But he’s considered a relatively minor artist. He’s hardly ever mentioned these days.”
“That was true until recently,” Niles said. “Because, of course, Ghosts in the Mind, his most famous work, went missing for years and was only discovered a few months ago—and sold at auction. There’s a story to that, of course, but as to Hubert, well...like you said, he died young. We might have had so many more wonderful pieces had he lived longer. His use of perspective was extraordinary. Not many artists could create completely different images, pictures within pictures, in such an effective way.”
“If I’m remembering my art history correctly, the original was oil on canvas and was painted in Switzerland during the summer of 1816. The world endured what they now refer to as ‘the year without a summer,’” Danni said.
“Apparently, a natural climate change at that time was enhanced by the eruption of a volcano—Mount Tambora in the Dutch East Indies,” Niles explained. “I got interested in this stuff because of Ghosts in the Mind, so I’ve been reading about it. Anyway, the volcano erupted in 1815 but the fallout changed the weather and the atmosphere all over Europe, even a year later. It snowed in June! In the United States, too,” he said. “Anyway, that terrible weather caused a great many miserable days, but also brought about this wonderful, chilling piece of art.”
“Don’t forget, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein came out of that summer, too.”
“Yes, yes, of course! And it was influenced by the fact that scientists all over were playing with electricity. Mary was familiar with some of the greatest scientific minds of her time. It’s a brilliant book,” he said in a reverent voice. “One that looked at what life was and what it wasn’t...just like this painting looks at the masks we wear on the outside while we hide our real thoughts on the inside. Most critiques have agreed that this was Henry Sebastian Hubert’s finest work. Pity, pity, pity!”
“He died by his own hand,” Danni murmured.
Niles shook his head dismissively. “So said the bumbling authorities back then! Tragically, he was found in the tower where he was painting, seated before his masterpiece. They said it was poison. What did they know?” Niles demanded.
Danni laughed. “Probably a lot more than we suspect. Remember, anatomy was the rage back then. Corpses were stolen for dissection.... Burke and Hare were busy digging up corpses to sell and then killing people for the money their bodies would bring. They—”
“That wasn’t until later,” Niles interrupted.
“Yes, but they weren’t the first,” Danni said. “Different countries had different laws on acquiring corpses for medical purposes and learning about anatomy and so on. The thing is, by the early 1800s, doctors and scientists had been dissecting cadavers for centuries. Medical people couldn’t cure most diseases, but they’d certainly learned about anatomy. Still, you have a point—he might have been poisoned and they might have missed it. But since Hubert was alone when he died, his fingers curled around the wineglass that held whatever toxin it was, I’m sure they were right, and he committed suicide. The poor man couldn’t run to a doctor and get a prescription for an antidepressant. Yes, it’s a tragedy. Sadly, history is full of such tragedies. Shelley drowned in a lake and Byron was only in his thirties when he died. Mary Shelley lost three of her four children at very early ages—it was all very sad and tragic.”
Niles still didn’t seem convinced that anything was as sad as the death of an artist.
“So, did someone just license the painting for giclée reproduction?” she asked Niles.
“Like I was saying, the painting disappeared soon after Hubert died, reappeared in some kind of storage, in England, then ended up in a museum in France. It disappeared again during World War II.”
“This sounds familiar. Wasn’t it stolen by the Nazis?”
“Perfectly true!” Niles said excitedly. “It seems an old Nazi war criminal died in Brazil within the past year, and the painting was found wrapped and buried in a vault. The Brazilian government returned it to the French museum, but the museum’s having hard times and gratefully put it on the auction block. No one knows who purchased the original yet. These things can be so hush-hush and done through corporate names and all that. But the new owner authorized a gallery to make a copy, and from that copy, they were allowed to do a giclée limited edition of two thousand. And—” he lowered his voice as if he were speaking to a coconspirator “—there’s a rumor that the purchaser was from here—from NOLA! I was incredibly lucky. I scored a hundred of them for the gallery. I’ve already sold sixty-six.”
Danni studied the copy of the painting again. It was as interesting, as rich, as complex, as the human/monster tale about Dr. Frankenstein’s creation.
“Shall I save one for you?” Niles asked.
Danni wasn’t sure. On the one hand, the giclée of the painting was beautiful. It was also terribly dark and seemed to be a warning regarding human nature. Did a man smile and offer a rose while thinking of murder? Were children innocently playing, already on the way to cruelty and a callous disregard for life?
A lady in an elaborate feathered hat swept by to gain Niles’s attention; he excused himself to Danni, winking as he did so. “I’ll save one!” he promised.
“Great. Lovely. I can keep it with the coffin and guillotine and shrunken heads down in Dad’s collection,” she muttered to herself.
“Hey, Danni.”
As she turned to leave, she almost crashed into Mason Bradley, Niles’s sometime-salesman and sometime-artist. Mason’s forte was restoration and he was very good at it. Like most artists, he worked on learning his own style by studying the masters and occasionally making copies. He was thirty-eight, tall, blond and handsome, and was working on establishing himself and making a name in the French Quarter by painting cemetery scenes. He had a special style, realistic yet slightly exaggerated, that made his paintings both poignant and eerie.
“Mason, hey, how are you?” she asked.
“Great, thanks. How about you? Are you doing any work? I know it’s been hard for you since your dad died.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“I see you’ve got the dog—Wolf, right?” Mason smiled at the dog but made no attempt to touch him. She wondered if he was afraid of Wolf or simply wasn’t fond of dogs.
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Well, I guess you got something out of the relationship when Quinn left. If you need to talk, get some coffee, go for a drink—have a shoulder to cry on—well, I’m here,” he told her sympathetically.
She bent her head and couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t need to cry. Honestly. Quinn and I... He’s in Texas.”
“I’m glad. You deserve someone who...well, someone who’s a little more...stable.”
“I’m just fine, Mason.”
“Enjoying the art of Hubert, I see.”
“There’s...nothing quite like it, is there?”
Mason stared at the giclée and nodded. “The story is that it was Hubert’s entry into the ‘ghost’ contest that went on during the summer that wasn’t a summer—that Lord Byron challenged him to paint something as frightening as anything they could write. He did a damned good job.”
“I agree. Oh! Mason, I’m seeing more and more of your cemetery prints out there! You’re doing great. The paintings are wonderful—and I’m delighted that the prints seem to be everywhere.”
“Yes, but the paintings themselves don’t always sell. People don’t necessarily want to pay for an original. So I’m still a struggling artist, you know how that goes,” Mason said. “But at least I’m not a starving artist.” He took her empty champagne glass. “I guess I should get back to selling. I know we’ll keep one of the Hubert giclées for you. Hey,” he told her, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “There’s a rumor that the collector who bought the piece is here—right here in New Orleans!”
“Niles mentioned that.”
“It’s such a unique object,” Mason said reverently. “Anyway, my dear friend, remember we love you, Niles and I. And don’t forget, if you need me, I’m here!”
“Thank you.” Danni smiled as Mason hurried away to attend to another customer and then found herself turning back to the giclée.
It was surpisingly difficult to tear herself away from Ghosts in the Mind. Determined, she finally did. Billie McDougall—her Icabod Crane/Riff Raff lookalike and helper in all things—had been running the store alone. Bo Ray Tomkins, their clerk, hadn’t been with them long, and generally worked on their bookkeeping and inventory, although he also assisted with sales when necessary. Billie didn’t care if he manned the counter on his own, but still, she’d been gone for a few hours.
Danni waved a goodbye to Mason, who returned the gesture, and stepped out onto Royal Street, Wolf at her heels. The sun shone down on handsome balconies, some still wearing their Mardi Gras apparel or banners and ribbons and signs. Some sported chairs and plants with vines that seemed to trickle down, adding to the faded elegance that was so much a part of the French Quarter.
But just as she started to head back to her own shop, Wolf began to bark frantically and pull at his leash. He was very well trained, but so excited she was afraid he’d drag her across the street.
“Wolf!”
Then she realized that a figure was standing there, watching her.
He was wearing a light casual coat, perfect for the spring weather. It hung nicely on his six-four frame. He wore sunglasses and a brimmed hat, which hid his short sandy-blond hair and hazel eyes. But he smiled slowly, and she’d know that smile anywhere...just as she knew him.
Her heart quickened, and she felt exhilaration sweep through her.
She was deliriously happy to see him.
And yet...
His appearance made her tremble. Was he back because he lived here, because he wanted to see her?
Or was something about to happen?
Quinn.
Quinn had returned.
Chapter Two
DANNI MEANT TO greet Quinn with decorum. He’d been in Austin at the request of a friend in the police department there. She’d read what she could on the internet about the murder and spoken to him a few times on the phone, but they had determined that they weren’t going to call each other every day, that they were going to take it slowly as far as their relationship went. They were both well aware that they’d face difficult situations as time went by.
The hell with decorum.
“Quinn!” She shouted his name and barely checked the road for cars before she went streaking across it.
The dog beat her to him. Wolf knew not to jump, but maybe he’d decided the hell with decorum, too. On his hind legs, the dog was the size of the man. Quinn gave him loving affection, calling him an old mutt, and then became the master, ordering him to sit. Wolf seemed to understand that he’d been assigned to watch Danni; Quinn would always be his real master.
So the dog and I both just wait for him to come back, Danni thought.
When Quinn looked at her, she tried very hard not to smile, to let him make the first move.
Then she couldn’t resist anymore and threw herself into his arms. He caught her, lifted her, pulled her tight against him and met her with a kiss.
It was a decorous kiss, really.
However, some fool walking around them muttered, “Get a room!” And then someone else said, “Oh, Robbie, check that out!” and then a third person, presumably Robbie, said, “Hey, it’s New Orleans!” Someone else sniggered and added, “But Bourbon Street’s one over!”
Danni and Quinn listened, they laughed and they drew apart, still holding hands, looking each other up and down as if a few weeks could have changed the other and anxious to see that it hadn’t.
No harm had come to Quinn, Danni concluded. He was perfect or, at least, perfect to her, over six feet, and as muscular as an athlete. His hazel eyes were vibrant, so alive, so well set in the classic structure of his face. He had a great jaw—a really great jaw. Square, the kind that made him appear to be in control on every occasion. And yet he had sensuous lips and the ability to laugh. She smiled, remembering a time when she’d actively disliked him. But that had been right after her father had died—and before she’d known exactly what her father had left her.
She pulled away, studying him. “Texas?” she asked.
“Very strange,” he told her. “And sad.”
“But it was solved?”
He nodded. “But there was really nothing unusual about the situation. It looked like the guy had killed himself. He had a vial of sleeping pills and a bottle of beer at his side, and there was no forced entry—nothing to indicate anything other than suicide.”
“But you already knew it wasn’t suicide.”
“Yeah. The guy had been married for thirty years. Everyone thought that he and his wife were as happy as could be. They had a grown family, and husband and wife were both due to retire. But it turns out that he was the family dictator and had verbally abused them all for years. Still, the wife took it. But then he started using a cream for low testosterone and, apparently, the cream caused the wife to grow a beard. I guess that was the final straw for her. He was sitting around watching TV and yelled at her to get him a beer. She brought him a beer, all right, and filled it up with the sleeping pills. She did everything correctly, called the police, said she’d been asleep and she came out and found him and...” He stopped to take a breath. “And she killed a man who’d probably dominated her and in a way tortured her for most of her life—because she just couldn’t tolerate the hair on her face. Davy, the cop in Texas who called me, didn’t like it from the beginning but couldn’t prove she’d done it. When we did prove it, I don’t think he was particularly happy.”
“What’ll happen to her?” Danni asked.
Quinn shrugged. “Hopefully, the courts will take her life into consideration.”
“How did you prove it?”
“We went over and over the evidence. Her fingerprints were on the beer can, but of course they were on all the groceries in the house. Eventually, I simply asked her—and she broke down. It was probably a matter of timing, because Davy had questioned her repeatedly. When I asked, she was ready to confess. The woman wasn’t a career criminal or a psychopath. She just couldn’t take his abuse anymore.”
Danni nodded. She’d greeted him; now she stood on the street feeling a little awkward. “So, you’re home.”
His eyes touched hers. “You told me to go,” he reminded her softly. “You said we needed to make sure we were good at being apart.”
Danni lowered her head and nodded again.
I wasn’t good at it at all!
“So, yes, I went when a friend called. We solved the situation. I’m grateful, and I’m home. Except that I’d hardly gotten back before I was called in on a case here,” he said.
“Oh?” Danni asked. “By...Larue?” When he was a cop in the city, Quinn had been partnered with Jake Larue. She was well aware that Larue kept a lot of his thoughts and opinions to himself, but if there was some out-of-the-ordinary crime, he knew he didn’t have the special skills to comprehend what was behind it.
He did know, however, that there was something different about Quinn, and he was quick to call him when the situation warranted extra eyes—eyes that might see more deeply.
“Yeah, I’d only just dropped my bags at the house when he called. When we’re off the street, I’ll explain.”
She heard the gravity in his voice. “Okay. Want to go to the shop?”
“I was on my way,” he told her. She liked his awkward smile. “I drove back into the city and acted like a nice normal human being, thinking I wouldn’t bolt over and scream your name like a character out of a movie. But what were you up to? Did I stop you from doing something?”
“I was just at my friend’s gallery down the street—Image Me This,” she said.
He glanced past her shoulder. “Ah, being an artist!” he teased.
“I do that now and then.”
“Anything interesting there?”
“Very interesting. He has a number of pieces on display by local artists, and a remarkable giclée reproduction that’s never been licensed before.”
He was still looking at the gallery. Maybe he wasn’t in any rush to tell her about this latest instance of man’s inhumanity to man.
“Giclée?” he asked.
Danni explained, adding, “Giclée comes from gicleur, the French word for nozzle or spray. The term came about in the early nineties when certain specialized printers were developed. Want to see?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I can show Niles and Mason that you didn’t dump me, leaving me with the dog to soothe my broken heart.”
“You’re the one who thought we needed to take it slow.”
“And you agreed.” Danni hesitated a moment. “I still feel that way, except...”
“Except?”
“I’m not sure yet. You’re here now. I’m glad. And I’m darned happy to go back into that gallery with you.”
“Should I fawn all over you?” he asked.
“No, you should act normal!”
He reached out and took her hand and they headed across the street. Danni smiled, a sense of well-being washing over her.
Along with another chill.
Quinn was back.
And already...he’d been called in on something.
But she was pleased to walk into the gallery with Quinn. It had grown busier since she’d left. Of course, it was a Saturday morning in spring, a beautiful season in the city. A time when tourists loved to come. But spring-breakers tended to hang out more on Bourbon Street than in the galleries on Royal. However, Niles ran his business well and managed to attract a number of them.
Danni walked Quinn over to the Hubert giclée, Wolf trotting politely beside them. Quinn paused, frowning as he studied it. “It’s a beautiful piece. I don’t quite get...oh.”
His frown deepened as he saw the image within the image, saw the weapons, saw how the children played.
“Wow.” He turned to Danni.
She smiled in response. “There’s a fascinating history to the real painting. Hubert was part of a very bohemian crowd in the early 1800s. He was friends with Byron, Shelley and crew. I don’t know if you recall, but Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein after she, Percy Shelley, Lord Byron and another man, Dr. Polidori, spent part of an exceptionally overcast, cold summer together in Switzerland. Anyway, it was dark and gloomy and they read old German ghost stories and came up with their own. They went to visit Henry Sebastian Hubert, the artist, and talked him into joining their game. But while they’d describe a scenario with words, he’d do it with paint.”
“The guy was obviously talented.”
“He was, but he died soon after painting this.”
“He might’ve been one sick puppy, too, psychologically speaking. How did he die?”
“He was found in a tower room in the medieval castle he’d rented, staring at the painting—this painting—dead. He’d taken poison,” Danni told him. “Or...some believe he’d been given poison. No one could ever prove it either way.”
“Hmm. He might’ve been a victim of depression. Or he might have had more enemies than he realized. Or—another possibility—he might have overdone the drugs and alcohol. What do you think?”
“I’ve taken a lot of art history in my day but I never had a class in which anyone could explain the mysteries of the human mind. And if scientists could figure that out—well, the pharmaceutical companies might go out of business!”
Quinn frowned again as he looked at the painting, angling to one side.
“What?” Danni asked.
“Hubert,” he said. “I suppose it’s a common enough name.”
“I’d say so.”
“French in origin?”
“Probably,” Danni said. “Hubert was an English citizen. His father was an Englishman. His mother was Norwegian. But even by then, names could be deceptive. The French lived in England, the English lived in France, and had for centuries. Plus, people vacationed all over. Why the interest in the name?”
Quinn raised one shoulder in a shrug. “This sounds funny, of course, because we all wish there wasn’t any need for medical examiners, but my favorite M.E. in the city is named Hubert. You’ve met him.”
“That’s right!” Danni said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” It was her turn to shrug. “But there are Quinns and Caffertys all over, too, and we don’t know about the majority of them. If we are related it’s from hundreds of years ago.”
“I’m just curious,” Quinn said. “I left Hubert a little while ago. Now I’m seeing a painting by a different Hubert.”
“Odd coincidence, I guess.”
“Michael Quinn!” Niles seemed to float across the room as he came toward them. He squinted at Danni, as if unconvinced that she’d told him the truth before. “You’re back in town. Lovely. Are you here for long?”
“I’m not sure, but I always come back. New Orleans is home. I have a house in the Garden District, Niles.”
“Yes, of course, I’d forgotten,” Niles said. “But you’re here now. In my gallery. What do you think? Isn’t the giclée just incredible?”
“Yes,” Quinn murmured. “Incredible...”
“I told Danni I’m saving one for her. I’ll get it wrapped up for you tonight, Danni.”
“Uh, thanks. That’s great,” Danni said. She didn’t want to decline the giclée; it was beyond doubt a piece by a famous—and infamous—artist. And it was decidedly unique. Unusual.
It was also creepy, and she had enough creepy in her life.
But Niles was beaming, so glad he could provide her with such a treasure, and she had no intention of hurting his feelings.
“How do you tell a copy from the real thing?” Quinn asked.
“For one thing,” Danni replied, “Copies likes this—giclées—are numbered. The one on the wall is number 480 out of 2000.”
“Yes, it’s like buying a print—except better,” Niles crowed.
“I see. More or less,” Quinn said. “No, I do understand, and a copy would work just fine for me. Sadly, I don’t know that much about art.”
“Well, copies of all kinds are fine. Ah, but to have the real thing...” He sighed. “Well, anyway, I don’t. Someone rich does. Hey, enough about other artists! When she’s ready, Danni will do another show here,” Niles told Quinn.
“Let’s hope,” Quinn said, meeting her eyes, “that she’ll be ready soon.”
They left after exchanging goodbyes with Niles and walked down Royal Street toward The Cheshire Cat, Danni’s shop and home. Although she’d gone away for college and at various times had her own apartment, she’d moved back into her childhood home for good when her father died.
And when she discovered exactly what he’d kept in the basement.
She and Billie had recently restructured the shop area of the eighteenth-century house. She’d created a beautiful life-size image of a banshee for a jewelry line she was selling for a friend, and it was near the entry, with its various Celtic designs. She’d also added shelving for her “Gargoyles!” collection. Naturally she offered the customary New Orleans souvenirs—Saints T-shirts, beads and gris-gris bags and a line of “Voodoo for Love!” voodoo dolls that were adorable. You pricked the cloth body with a little needle that tattooed a kiss onto it for luck, love, happiness....
But some things in the store had stayed the same—the replicated King Tut mask, for one, the cardboard cutouts of Bela Lugosi as Dracula and Vincent Price as Dr. Phibes and a few other pieces. Mostly, she sold specialty items, including antiques. The store was always spotlessly clean, slightly Goth, slightly vampire-themed—and as much fun and as intriguing as she could make it. When buyers stopped in, they could spend a dollar for a few plastic beads or a fortune for real art, antique pieces or jewelry. Danni’s father—cast by the fates from the Highlands of Scotland to New Orleans—loved his adopted city. Shops should be different and unusual, he believed. Places people wanted to come back to, just like they wanted to come back to Bourbon Street for revelry, Frenchman Street for great local music, Jackson Square for art....
The Cheshire Cat was special, Danni thought. Her father had purchased the building when he’d fallen in love with her mother. The place had been a home in the early 1700s, one of the only structures to survive the fires that had nearly destroyed the city later in the century. It still had a courtyard and the typical U or horseshoe shape of so many New Orleans homes and she loved every inch of it.
When she and Quinn entered, Billie was sitting behind the counter, actually a glass display case for jewelry. He’d been reading but when the door opened and he saw Quinn, he jumped to his feet, hurrying around. “Quinn, you’re back, man!” After years in the United States, Billie’s Scots brogue remained strong.
He pumped Quinn’s hand, stood awkwardly for a minute, then threw both arms around him. Then he quickly stepped back, his expression anxious. “Oh. Oh?”
Danni understood the way Billie looked at Quinn. He was glad to see him; he was afraid to see him. While they’d had some quiet times over the past months, if Quinn was here, something could be going on. And, given that Larue had already called him, something was....
“I got back last night. Finished in Texas,” Quinn said. “I came in really late so I went straight to my house.”
“Everything all right?” Billie asked.
“It was last night. But this morning...bad scene in the city. A family massacred.”
“Oh,” Billie said. “Oh.” His shoulders slumped. “I haven’t seen the news today.”
“It might have been a domestic situation,” Quinn added.
Billie was obviously skeptical. “Domestic, eh?” He turned to Danni. “Bo Ray took a breather—he’s gone to pick up some groceries. As soon as he’s back, I say we walk over to Natasha’s and after that, we get Quinn to tell us what went on at the ‘domestic’ situation.”
Quinn glanced at his watch. They could just have called Natasha, but it would be better to see her. “Sounds like a plan, Billie. But I say we meet here after seven, when the shop closes. If Bo Ray’s buying groceries, we can whip up something to eat and I’ll tell you what I know—which might be a little more than I know now. I’m due at autopsy. I didn’t realize I’d spent so much time looking at art.”
“Looking at art?” Billie repeated.
“One piece in particular. It’s a very...unusual piece,” Danni said. “But we’re getting a copy. It’s a giclée.”
“A what?”
“An ink-jet copy—almost as good as the original.” Quinn winked at Danni. She doubted he’d been familiar with giclée prints until that day.
Billie just shook his head. Danni smiled. She loved Billie; he’d been devoted to her father. He was devoted to her now. And to The Cheshire Cat.
“It’s a pity we looked at art for so long.” Quinn said, his lips twitching with humor—and a secret message meant only for her.
She grinned wickedly, indulging him. “Go. We’ll see you back here.”
He nodded, turned to leave the shop. As he did, he nearly bumped into Bo Ray Tompkins, a young man who now worked at the shop as a clerk and bookkeeper. He’d been a suspect in their first investigation. Now, he was clean of drugs and grateful, and a reliable member of their staff.
Bo Ray was excited to see Quinn, too. He almost dropped the grocery bags he was carrying. Quinn grabbed and saved one and they all wound up on the counter.
“Quinn!”
Bo Ray said the word with such adulation that Danni had to laugh. He hadn’t even noticed she was there.
“Bo Ray, great to see you!” Quinn said. “Things are going well?”
Bo Ray looked over at Danni. “You bet—Danni’s the best. And Billie, too, of course! Hey, I’ll have a Scottish accent myself in a few more weeks!”
Quinn laughed. “See you all tonight,” he said, and headed out.
“He’s really back!” Bo Ray said, delighted. Clean-shaven, his hair still on the long side, his clothing clean and neat, Bo Ray was darned good-looking. He was excellent with their customers, too, charming them easily. Danni’s philosophy—which had also been her father’s—was that they did far more business by making people like the shop than they did by trying to sell things every minute. That way, people remembered the place; if they weren’t ready to buy, they came back. If they just wanted to look, they were welcome. “Ohhh!” he said, his mouth a circle. “Does that mean...”
“It means he finished working in Texas, but there’s been a murder here—several murders, a family—and he’s going into autopsy.”
“Ohhh,” Bo Ray said again.
“Maybe not ‘ohhh,’” Danni said. “Bad things happen in any big city. Drug deals go wrong and we sure as hell haven’t stamped out domestic violence. Anyway, I’ll get Natasha over for dinner tonight. Then we’ll talk.”
“And we’re just... We’re just supposed to keep working until then? Keep the shop open? Smile and greet customers? Act like nothing’s happened?” Bo Ray asked.
“Exactly,” Billie said, clapping a hand on Bo Ray’s shoulder. “Now, get the groceries into the kitchen. You’re messin’ with the gargoyles here!”
Danni laughed. “Children, play nicely. I’m leaving now to drop in on Natasha.” Wolf barked. She could swear the dog understood her words. Wolf loved Natasha and the courtyard at her shop.
“Oh, Wolf, I’m sorry. I want you to stay here and help the boys, okay?”
Wolf whined; he not only loved Natasha, he took his role as Danni’s bodyguard seriously.
She stroked his head and slipped out the door, leaving the dog with Billie and Bo Ray.
Danni walked down to St. Ann and then up toward Bourbon to Natasha’s shop.
* * *
Quinn was taken directly back to the largest autopsy room at the morgue. Ron Hubert was already at work. The doctor’s assistant offered Quinn a gown and mask—suggesting he’d definitely need the mask—and led him in.
The five bodies had been cleaned and prepped and were in a row on scoured steel autopsy tables. The scent of disinfectant was heavy in the air, but it didn’t dispel the metallic scent of blood. The smell of decomposition already sat beneath that of the chemicals.
Hubert, his face protected by a full-cover plastic mask, stood by the body of James A. Garcia. The Y incision had been made and Hubert was recording his findings in an even, modulated tone that was picked up by the hanging microphone above the body. He reached into the pocket of his white medical jacket to switch off the procedural recording as he saw Quinn walk into the room.
“You got here fast,” he said.
“No time like the present,” Quinn remarked. “Anything?”
“Well, as you can see, I’ve just begun the preliminaries. Jackson and Coe, two of my assistants, have bathed and prepped the bodies and so far I’ve made a few observations. Strange, my friend, strange indeed. I feel as if I’ve been cast into a gruesome version of the board game Clue. Follow me, and I’ll explain,” Hubert said.
He stopped in front of another gurney. “Andrea Garcia, I believe, was the first to be attacked. She was in the kitchen—and it’s my contention that she was assaulted by a machete or a sword. The blade was long and broad. There are no defensive wounds on her hands or arms so I don’t think the poor woman had the slightest idea that she was about to be attacked.”
He moved on. “This was Maggie Santander. Since she was viciously bludgeoned to death, we see very little of her face. Oddly, I’m almost certain that both women died first. Usually, a murderer like this would dispatch the men immediately, wanting to disable the stronger of the victims so they wouldn’t have to tackle them in a fight. What she was struck with I don’t know—a heavy object. I haven’t found splinters or metal chips or any telltale sign of the weapon used.”
Quinn felt his jaw tighten; what had been done to the grandmother was gut-wrenching. She really had no face. “Luckily, my boy,” Hubert said, “I believe she died instantly. The blunt force crushed her skull and bone shards went into the brain. However,” he said, moving again, “her husband died the most easily—a single gunshot dead-center to the head. No bullet in him or found at the scene, according to the police. But I still say he was lucky. He probably never knew what hit him.”
“Small mercies,” Quinn said.
“In this situation? Yes.” Hubert walked on to the next table. The woman lying there was pale and ashen; her lips were a sickly shade of blue. Hubert opened one of her eyes. “Petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, the bruising around the neck. As we’d ascertained at the scene, this young woman was strangled and with great force. But I’ve looked at the bruising with a microscope. She was manually strangled, but there’s no indication whether the killer was left-or right-handed. As you saw at the house, it appears that she walked into the midst of the carnage and was caught before she could escape. Now, let’s return to Mr. Garcia.”
Hubert went back to the first body. “Here’s where it’s curious. Mr. Garcia was right-handed. It almost looks as if the wounds were self-inflicted. See how the cuts are on the left side of the body? And the deeper wounds, the stab wounds, are all toward the left. Even where his throat is slit. It could indicate that the man took a knife or a similar blade himself and swept it across his own throat in a left-to-right motion. There was also a great deal of blood on his right hand. However, at that point, he would’ve instantly lost so much blood that I estimate death would have occurred in under a minute—certainly not enough time to stash the weapon. And, of course, he couldn’t have gone far,” Hubert added dryly.
Quinn stared at him. “So?” he asked.
“So, I’m the medical examiner. You’re the investigator.”
“What you’re telling me is basically impossible. And yet based on what you’ve said—and what we discovered at the house—it looks like James Garcia got hold of a machete or a sword and sliced his wife to pieces in the kitchen. Then he moved around the house, dripping blood, found a heavy object and killed his mother-in-law with it, then found a gun and shot his father-in-law. After that, he headed downstairs, and strangled Maria Orr. Then he walked down the hall and stabbed himself several times before cutting his own throat and dying.” Quinn shook his head. “Pretty damned impossible. I don’t buy it.”
“Me, neither.”
“So, there had to be someone else there.”
“That’s what I’m assuming. Especially since there are no weapons.”
“So, someone went to the house with weapons, gave them to James Garcia, who murdered his family and committed suicide, and then took the weapons away?” Quinn asked cynically.
“That’s how it seems.” Hubert sighed deeply. “But, as I told you, I’m the medical examiner. You’re the investigator.”
“Has Larue been here yet?”
“He’s due anytime.”
Quinn felt a chill seep slowly into him. There was obviously something not right about the situation; Larue had known that immediately and that was why he’d called Quinn.
“Are you waiting for him?” Hubert asked.
“No. There’s not much point. I’m sure he’s working on backgrounds, but I don’t think this is about drugs, or a family feud or anything...”
“Ordinary?”
Quinn felt his brow furrow as he studied the bodies, then glanced back at Hubert. “Odd. You see a macabre game of Clue. I saw a strange painting this morning—or a copy of it—that this brings to mind.”
“Oh,” Hubert said. “Yeah. The Henry Sebastian Hubert. Ghosts in the Mind.”
“You know the painting?” Quinn asked.
“Of course.”
“Of course?”
“Believe it or not, I do enjoy art,” Hubert said. “But that’s not why I know that particular painting.”
“You are a descendant?” Quinn said.
“Sure am,” Hubert said, grimacing.
“But...”
“I don’t know how many ‘greats’ I am. The man was as bohemian as his friends. He had a wife he left in London. She had a child. That child had a child—you know how it goes. Anyway, my grandfather came to Minnesota and that’s where I lived until I came here. But, yes, I’m a descendant. And I’m sure of my facts because my mother was something of a family historian.”
“Now that’s a bizarre coincidence!”
“What’s really bizarre is that you saw the painting—or a copy of it. Hubert was talented but became obscure. I guess there’s been a revival of interest in his work, especially that piece. It has a long tangled history.”
“I heard some of it, and tangled is an understatement,” Quinn said. “Did you know there’s a copy—a giclée—at a shop on Royal Street?”
“Interesting. I’ll have to go by and see it. But right now I have a lot of work to do. Is there anything else I can tell you?”
Quinn shook his head slowly. “No, not now, thanks, Doc. I’ll see Larue later and find out what he’s learned so we can decide how we’re going to pursue this.”
Hubert nodded grimly. “Get this bastard—whether he killed the family, which is the most likely, or forced Garcia to kill them. He’s evil. Totally, heinously evil. Get him.”
Quinn left, stripping off his gown and mask. But as he hurried down to the street and his car, he found his mind twitching in different directions.
A game of Clue.
A painting of domestic bliss that wasn’t.
And someone—something—evil and alive in the city he loved.
Chapter Three
NATASHA, ALSO REFERRED to as Mistress LaBelle, was a renowned voodoo priestess in the Quarter. Danni had known her as long as she could remember—and loved her like a wonderful, eccentric aunt for every one of those years.
These days she realized that Natasha had more than just an understanding of people. Natasha’s faith was strong. She knew that spirits traveled in the world—and everything wasn’t plainly visible for the eye to see.
But Natasha also lived in the real world. Her shop was filled with wonders. The scent of incense flowed throughout; there were handcrafted masks on display, along with other artwork, jewelry and all kinds of gris-gris, since Mistress LaBelle catered to tourists, as well as the devout of her flock.
Natasha had a trusted wingman—Jeziah, who was at the counter when Danni entered the shop. He looked up when the door opened. As a few tourists clustered in a corner, choosing a mask, Jeziah smiled at her.
Jeziah was often quiet and stoic but he saw everything that went on around him. Danni knew that he gave his total loyalty to Natasha; Jez, she thought, could have done anything in life. He was intelligent and compassionate. He was also striking, his skin a beautiful dark shade and his eyes a brilliant green. Jeziah moved fluidly and with purpose and seemed able to converse on any subject. He was a good friend to have.
“She’s waiting for you,” Jez told her before she’d come even two feet into the store.
“You’re kidding me,” Danni said.
Jez shrugged. “Do I ever kid? She had a dream about you.”
“Oh?”
“She’s waiting.”
Danni could quiz him, but she knew he wouldn’t say any more, so she merely thanked him and walked out to the courtyard.
There were many beautiful courtyards in the Quarter. Danni particularly loved Natasha’s. Plants grew everywhere, adorned with wind chimes and dream catchers. She kept candles burning by her wrought-iron table, since she gave readings there, usually at night. She was pricey when tourists came calling, but a session with Mistress LaBelle was considered a coup.
Natasha didn’t rise when she saw Danni arrive. She beckoned her to the table where she sat, a burning sconce on either side.
Danni took the seat opposite her. Natasha had set out two cups of tea.
“Where’s Wolf?” she asked.
“With Billie and Bo Ray,” Danni said, shaking her head. “How do you know when I’m coming?”
Natasha met her eyes. She was beautiful in a grand way, with nearly perfect bone structure and an ageless face. Tonight she wore a red-and-orange turban that complemented her orange robe and dark mahogany skin.
“The air tells me, child. The air...you can feel the crackle when something’s up in the city.” She paused. “I’ve also seen the news. There was a massacre today.”
Danni nodded. “I don’t know much about it yet.”
“But Quinn was there, at the site.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. He thought you might want to come to my place around seven. We’ll have a meal and talk about it. We—”
“Drink your tea,” Natasha interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“Drink your tea.”
Natasha was renowned for her palm reading, her insightful reading of tarot cards—and tea leaves.
Danni shouldn’t have been surprised by Natasha’s insistence. One way or another, she could “read” any situation.
“Drink up. I have to see what there is to see.”
“This isn’t like the situation we had with the bust last year,” Danni said “There’s no object that we know of associated with any of this. Quinn was called in by Larue. It may not have anything to do with me.”
“There’s going to be an object. We just don’t know what it is yet. So drink up.”
Danni sighed but dutifully drank the tea. When she’d finished, Natasha took her cup and studied the leaves. She shook her head and made a tsking sound; before Danni could groan or ask what she’d seen, she leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.
Then her lids opened, but her eyes were rolled back and only the whites were visible. Danni was about to spring to her feet, about to call for Jez. But before she could, Natasha started speaking. “So much darkness! I see that the day is dark, there are clouds, and there is no rain, and then there is rain—thunder and lightning! Death spewed from the earth, darkness covered much of the globe. In the shadows, in the corners, in the most stygian places...evil was born. There was one who knew, and he guided the other, and there was a bright stain of blood against the darkness...and it’s coming here. It’s coming to New Orleans.”
Natasha’s head fell forward. Danni did spring to her feet then, rushing around to touch her friend. Natasha lifted her head and stared at Danni.
“Are you all right?” Danni asked urgently. “I’ve never—I’ve never seen you do anything like that! What’s going on? Do you know what you said?”
Natasha patted Danni’s hand where it lay on her shoulder. “I’m fine...and yes, I saw...I heard my voice. This has happened to me a few times....”
“You might need a doctor, Natasha—”
“I’m fine, Danni. Sit, please.”
Danni took her seat again, studying Natasha worriedly. Her skin had grown a little ashen, but she appeared to be in control.
“What did that mean?”
“It means that something very, very bad is in the city. It’s a good thing Quinn’s back. We’d have to send for him if he wasn’t,” Natasha said.
“But...what is it?”
“I don’t really know. I just saw the sky, and it looked as if there’d been a great storm, and then there was a great storm...but when the rain went away, the sky was still dark.”
“Okay...we’ll check the weather?” Danni said hopefully.
Natasha gave her a disapproving frown. “Something is coming,” she repeated. “And I don’t think it’s another storm, another Katrina. Storms are real. They kill, ruin, devastate, but we know them. They’re forces of nature and they can be understood. This is different.”
“Did you see anything else?” Danni asked.
Natasha was silent for a minute.
“Natasha!”
Natasha nodded. “I saw...you.”
* * *
Quinn was eager to get back to The Cheshire Cat and Danni when he left the morgue, but before he’d gone very far, his phone rang. He answered on his hands-free unit. It was Larue.
“Where are you?” Larue asked.
“Heading back to the French Quarter. Hubert said you were due at autopsy,” Quinn replied.
“Yeah, well, there’s been another situation.”
Quinn’s grip tightened on the wheel.
Five already dead and there was another situation?
He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “How many?” he croaked.
“Nobody’s dead. This is different. Can you get to the station?”
None dead. He let out a sigh of relief.
“Uh, sure.”
Twenty minutes later he arrived at the station. Larue was there to meet him at the reception desk.
“What took you?” he demanded irritably.
“Uh, let me see? This area is filled with one-way streets, construction—oh, and we block off a few of our one-way streets now and then to accommodate fairs, wine tastings and musicians? Oh, yeah, and then there are the tourists who wander into the street. I always try to avoid hitting them.”
Larue wasn’t amused. “My office. Come on.”
Quinn followed Larue down a hallway to his office. As usual, a few of those who’d overpartied were being booked, some still grinning sloppily, some sobering up far too quickly and realizing the trouble they’d gotten themselves into. There was one kid, wearing a college football jersey, Quinn was sure he recognized.
“Up-and-coming quarterback,” he said quietly as they walked. “What did the kid do?”
“Thought one of the horses being ridden by a mounted patrol officer was making fun of him,” Larue said.
“And?”
“He punched the horse.”
“Horse okay?”
“Yeah, the kid will be, too. His parents are coming down.”
They went into Larue’s office. A man in uniform was sitting in front of Larue’s desk, his head in his hands. He glanced up when Quinn and Larue entered the room.
The cop was about forty and appeared to be in generally good health. Except that he looked haggard and drawn, as if he hadn’t slept for a week straight and had faced every demon in hell. Quinn thought he seemed familiar. He also looked as if he’d been in a fight; there were scuff marks on his clothing and a bruise under his eye that promised to become a massive shiner.
Larue sat on the corner of his desk. “Quinn, this is Officer Dan Petty. Dan’s been with the force for fifteen years. He’s received medals for his extraordinary valor in times of stress. He was here for the aftermath of Katrina and the summer of storms. Dan, Michael Quinn. You two might’ve met years ago. Quinn was with the force for a while.”
Dan Petty nodded at the introduction. He started to get up to meet Quinn, then fell back into the chair. As he watched Quinn, a certain expression came into his eyes—a spark of hope.
“Yeah, I remember you!” he said. “You’re that football hero who died and then became a cop!”
“I was a cop, and now I’m a private investigator,” Quinn responded.
“But you really died, huh?”
“I was resuscitated.”
“Yeah, but still...” To Petty, it was clearly a good thing. He might have been clinging to the hope that Quinn knew the secrets of the universe.
“Dan, do you want to tell Quinn what happened?” Larue suggested.
“There was something there...something in the evidence lockup. Something that wasn’t right,” Petty said. He swallowed. He’d probably tried to explain himself a few times now and hadn’t done well.
Petty grimaced. “It was coming at me... It was...well, you know how the fog sets over Lake Ponchartrain and it’s so damned misty you can’t see anything but shapes? The room was filled with the stuff...gray, with black shadows. It...it touched me. The gunk touched me and it was jerking me around and...I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it—I couldn’t control my own muscles, my own body—it was in me, do you understand? The damned gunk was in me. I started picking up confiscated knives and guns and then...”
“Then?” Quinn encouraged.
“I screamed. I was so damned scared and...then I felt that things were on me...trying to kill me.”
“His fellow officers, at that point.” Larue spoke in a low voice.
“They got me out eventually,” Petty said, looking at Larue. “I’m sorry. I hope those guys know...”
“They know,” Larue reassured him. He turned back to Quinn. “The other officers corroborate what Officer Petty just said. They swear there was some kind of fog in the evidence lockup.”
Quinn nodded. “So, did any of them stay behind?”
“There are men there now, three of them. The fog dissipated.”
“You saw it, too?” Quinn asked.
“Don’t know what it was, but I saw it, yes.”
“All right. I’ll talk to these guys, see what they have to say,” Quinn said. He patted Officer Petty on the knee. “Something bizarre happened in there. No need to feel like a crazy man. I’ll take a look and see if I can figure out what went on.”
“You’re not just, uh, patronizing me, are you?” Petty asked.
“I don’t patronize anyone,” Quinn told him. “Did you hear voices? Did you hear anyone speaking? Could you see anything in the fog?”
Petty shook his head. “No...just black within shadows, if that makes any sense. And—and I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve never had a stroke...I’m in great health. I don’t know...I just don’t know.”
Quinn glanced over at Larue. He wondered what his friend was thinking and quickly found out when Larue said, “I came in at the tail end when everything was pure chaos. But...”
“But?” Quinn prodded.
“But as I said, I saw it, too. Fog. Like the fog you get when the weather’s about to change and you know there might be a storm on the horizon. At first, although I couldn’t smell smoke, I thought there’d been a fire. It was a mess. Hell, maybe my mind’s going...except that if it was some hallucination, we were all affected.”
“Was anything missing?”
“The first assessment we made was on confiscated weapons,” Larue said. “All accounted for. The crew in there now is still checking.”
“I think I should see the evidence room,” Quinn said.
Larue nodded and then returned his attention to Officer Petty. “Dan, you know you’ll need to spend an evening in the...the hospital for assessment yourself, right?” Larue asked gently.
“A night in the loony bin,” Petty said. “I don’t care. Anywhere except the evidence lockup.”
Larue gestured at the doorway. There was a man in some kind of medical uniform waiting. Petty rose and shook Quinn’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you for listening. And you...you weren’t even here. You didn’t see. Thank you for believing.”
Quinn nodded gravely.
Petty left the room; one of Larue’s men was outside the office, too, ready to accompany the medical man and Officer Petty.
“What do you think?” Larue asked Quinn.
“I think you’re going to find something missing from your evidence room. We have to determine exactly what it is.”
“You mean someone was trying to break in?”
“Break in—or break out. I’m not sure which,” Quinn replied. But he immediately thought of the Garcia murders and the evidence that might have been taken from the house....
“Look for a little glass jar,” he said. “Like a vial.”
“What’s in it?” Larue asked.
“I don’t know, since it was empty—except for a trace of...something. Anyway, Grace and I felt it needed to be tested. But, whatever it was, I think the killer brought it to the house with him. And I’ll bet it’s gone.”
* * *
Danni returned to the shop, but she didn’t stay. She smiled cheerfully at Billie and Bo Ray and promised she’d be back—and they should plan for a nice dinner party. Billie just nodded. Bo Ray, relatively new to their team, still looked anxious.
She told them she was going to drop in on Father Ryan and invite him over for dinner. She could call him, of course, but this way, even if he couldn’t come that evening, she’d get a chance to see him.
Bo Ray, who’d gained a life thanks to the priest, seemed to like the fact that Father Ryan might be coming to visit.
They’d actually met Bo Ray because he’d been a suspect when people started dying during the Pietro Miro case. Sadly, he’d become caught up in it all, an alcoholic in the early stages of liver failure. Quinn had a good eye for people, just as Father Ryan did. They’d both seen that Bo Ray could be saved. He’d become a great asset to the store—and to their lives, Danni thought.
With Wolf in the car this time, Danni started out.
Father Ryan ministered well to his flock, gave great sermons, tended to the poor and downtrodden and did everything that a priest should do. He even looked like the perfect priest. Middle-aged with snow-white hair, big and brawny but possessing a gentle manner, he seemed to inspire trust. He was also a no-nonsense man, unafraid to take a stand. Willing to confront the unknown...
Father John Ryan was standing at the front door of the rectory, almost as if he was waiting for someone, when Danni drove up and parked on the street. He didn’t seem surprised when she and Wolf got out of her car and approached him.
“You knew I was coming,” she said.
“I did.”
Danni offered him a curious half grin. “You speak with the Almighty?”
“I do.”
“Oh?”
He smiled ruefully. “I speak with Him the same as you and every other man and woman out there, Danni. Actually, I knew you were coming for a far more mundane reason—Natasha called me.”
“Ah! But I didn’t tell her I was going to see you.”
“That’s where instinct kicks in,” Father Ryan told her. “But I had a feeling you or Quinn would be by soon enough. I heard about the massacre this morning.”
“I believe the police are looking into Garcia’s financials and other records,” Danni said. “It’s the type of thing that could happen if a big drug deal went wrong.”
Father Ryan shook his head fiercely. “There was no drug deal gone wrong, Danni. I’m sure of that.”
“How?”
“You and Wolf come on in. I’ll tell you what I can.”
“You know something?”
“Let’s have tea, shall we?”
Father Ryan didn’t want to be rushed. She and Wolf followed him into the rectory kitchen. First, Wolf got treats; Father Ryan kept them on hand just for him. Then, he put the kettle on and took his time setting out cups. Only when the tea was brewed and they sat down to drink it did he start talking. “James and Andrea Garcia were my parishioners. I’ve already been called in by social services—I’m helping place the children with relatives. This is a terrible blow. There are three children left behind—a ten-year-old, an eight-year-old and a five-year-old. The two older kids were James and Andrea’s and the youngest was the aunt’s little girl. Luckily, Andrea has another sister and brother in the city and they’re doing their best to comfort and care for the children, but...well, the only good thing about the situation is that the children weren’t there.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea you knew these people,” Danni murmured.
Father Ryan nodded. “There was no drug deal,” he said again. “And don’t tell me we don’t know what people are really like. James Garcia was a hardworking man. He was with the same company for years. He made deliveries for one of the most trusted services in our city and there was never a single complaint against him. His wife took care of her family—her parents lived with them—and neither Andrea nor James ever minded any burden put upon them. That family did nothing wrong.”
“The police are investigating. It won’t ease things for the children, but hopefully justice will be done.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Ryan demanded, looking her hard in the eyes.
“What can I do? There’s no indication that an object might be involved, not like the Pietro Miro case, Father.” Before Father Ryan could protest, she continued. “Quinn just got back last night. He was called to the scene this morning. But that’s why I’m here. Can you come to dinner at my place around seven tonight? Quinn wants all of us there to discuss what happened.”
”Yes, of course,” he said. “I promise you this isn’t a random murder. Nor is James Garcia part of it. Something isn’t right here—aside from the obvious, I mean. James Garcia was a good man who spent his life hauling packages and received commendations from his employer. His wife was a model of virtue. And the parents...hard workers, retired, enjoying their last years with the grandkids. The old man didn’t have much time left as it was—cancer. They’d given him six months.”
“I’m so sorry, Father Ryan,” Danni said again.
He drummed his fingers absently on the table. “What I’m afraid of is that we all may wind up much sorrier. Danni, we have to find out what the hell is going on here.”
* * *
“Dr. Hubert is a descendant of the Hubert who painted the original of the giclée at your friend’s gallery,” Quinn told Danni, setting plates on the table. The meal Billie had prepared, his version of the classic jambalaya, simmered on the stove.
She stopped patting dry the lettuce she’d just washed and looked over at him. They’d decided to get dinner ready and wait until Natasha and Father Ryan arrived to discuss the situation, so she was surprised that he’d brought up the painting. She’d reported that Father Ryan had known the Garcia family well and that he strenuously denied they could’ve been doing anything illegal. And Quinn had said only that the autopsy reports had yielded nothing they didn’t already know.
“A direct descendant,” he added.
“Really? How interesting.”
He nodded pensively and didn’t say any more.
“You okay?” she asked him.
He gazed at her for a long moment, then smiled, and walked over to her, slipping his arms around her. “I’m going to be more okay later on,” he whispered huskily.
They were pressed tightly together. It suddenly felt like months rather than weeks since they’d stood this way. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the strength of his muscles. Memory reflexes were going to kick in hard any minute. The urge to do far more than stand together was almost overwhelming.
They looked into each other’s eyes and backed away at the same time. He smiled ruefully. “Sorry.” He might have intended to keep his thoughts to himself a while longer, but touching her had obviously changed that.
“We should have scheduled this for...any time other than now!” Danni said.
He grinned but then grew serious again. “I don’t think we could have.”
Even as he spoke, Danni heard someone at the courtyard’s side entrance. Excusing herself, she went to open the back door. Father Ryan had arrived. She tried to push away her visions of Quinn, naked, as she greeted the priest, but she could feel a flush rise to her cheeks. She had to curb her thoughts about Quinn for the moment.
“Hey, glad you’re here,” she said. “Come on in, Father.”
“Wait up, wait up!” Natasha called, hurrying through the courtyard. Father Ryan turned; the two embraced warmly. An odd couple to many, no doubt—the priest and the voodoo priestess.
Father Ryan had once told her that he was true to his faith, but that, at heart, he and Natasha were kindred souls, seeking the same truth. Which had little to do with the way you sought that truth or the path you took.
She liked his view of the world.
“We’re sitting around the little table in the kitchen,” Danni said. The Cheshire Cat was similar to many places on Royal Street; it had been built as a house but now the shop took up the downstairs, with the small kitchen and one-time pantry on the first floor and her bedroom on the second. Billie’s apartment—and now Bo Ray’s, too—was located in what had been the attic. Luckily, it was big, and both men had their own rooms and ample space.
And downstairs, in the basement, really the ground level, was her father’s office or den and special collection of “curios.” Her studio, in the former pantry, was where she worked when she had time for her own art.
“Billie’s made jambalaya and cheese grits,” Danni announced as she led them in. “And we’ve got salad.”
“Scottish jambalaya!” Father Ryan said. “I can’t wait.”
Billie was behind them. He threw Father Ryan an evil glare and muttered, “Lucky I didn’t get the urge for haggis, friend, that’s all I have to say.”
When Bo Ray entered a few minutes later, Billie asked them all to grab plates and line up at the stove to help themselves. Natasha designated herself the beverage server and poured tea, lemonade and water, as each person chose. They were still in the act of greeting one another with casual jokes and hugs and getting organized at the table when Danni heard the buzzer at the shop’s main door. She excused herself and hurried down the hall, then out to the showroom. Looking through the glass, she saw Jake Larue standing there. He appeared to be tense, worried about something.
When she opened the door, he said, “You’re all here?”
Danni nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Jake. How are you?”
“May I?” he asked.
“Of course.”
She let him in, wondering why he was here. We’re just having dinner,” she said. “Hungry?”
“I don’t mean to impose,” he said.
“We have tons of food,” she assured him, leading the way through the darkened showroom to the kitchen.
As he walked in, everyone froze in position.
“Hey, guys. Jake’s here,” Danni said. “Billie made jambalaya.”
“Scottish jambalaya?” Jake’s confused words broke the freeze. The others laughed; Billie groaned, “Not again,” and shook his head.
“Get a plate and join us,” Quinn said. If he was surprised to see Jake, he didn’t let on.
Jake started to dish up food, but halfway through he turned to Quinn. “The log-in list disappeared from the evidence room computer. The sign-out sheets are missing, as well.”
They all looked at Jake and then back at Quinn. “Nothing there?” he asked.
“It was wiped clean. God knows, we’ve got our best techs and computer whiz kids on it. They’ve come up with nothing,” Jake said, taking a seat.
Quinn seemed to understand him. The others didn’t. But Quinn said, “Jake, sit and we’ll figure out what we can.”
Squeezing him in meant they were tightly wedged around the table, but they made room. Once Jake was seated, Quinn said, “It’s on the news, so we’re all aware of what happened to the Garcia family. I went to see Hubert at autopsy, and he said the murders were all different—like a game of Clue, in his words. Nothing at autopsy dispelled his original findings, but we still can’t explain why we haven’t found a single weapon or worked out exactly what went on. Did James Garcia kill everyone and then slit his own throat? If so, where? Or was there someone else in the house, a person or maybe more than one person, who managed to perform acts of unspeakable horror—and walk away without being seen or leaving a blood trail? Then, before I could return from autopsy, Jake called me and I went down to the police station. There was fog in the evidence room.”
“Fog?” Natasha asked hoarsely.
Larue gestured vaguely. “Fog, smoke...something. Anyway, an officer on duty went insane, needing help. Help came—and so did I. And the fog or whatever it might’ve been was still there. The officer said that a shadow went after him. It was all extremely strange. We have nothing on the computer anymore—and nothing on the cameras except for the fog or gray smoke that hides the entire area for maybe twenty minutes.”
“So they don’t know what was taken,” Quinn finished. But he was looking curiously at Larue.
“Here’s what we do know. A number of things that had been removed from the Garcia house were taken from the evidence room. The vial you mentioned earlier, and three wrapped packages. In other words, things that were spattered with blood or might have given us a clue as to what a murderer was looking for,” Jake said.
That caused Father Ryan to thump a fist on the table, which in turn caused all the dishes and glasses and flatware to clatter.
“Sorry,” Father Ryan muttered. “But I’ve told Danni—those people were part of my flock and I knew them. I knew them well. There were no drugs, no arms, no implements of any illegality in that house. I’d stake my life on it!”
“I’m not suggesting James Garcia was doing anything illegal,” Larue said. “Not really illegal.”
“What do you mean?” Father Ryan demanded.
“Garcia was one of the most trusted men in his business,” Larue began. “He would pick up items for delivery when he finished for the night so he’d be ready to head out first thing in the morning. This wasn’t official policy, but his supervisors have admitted they had an understanding with certain employees and Garcia was one. He’d had packages waiting to go out at his home. Some had blood spatter. We don’t know precisely what they were, but one of the crime scene techs who’d been collecting objects from the house for analysis told us the packages weren’t in the evidence room. She and a few others were brought down to try to remember. You can knock out a computer, but as long there are still people around, memory serves.” He paused. “The only detail she could recall was that one of the packages was large and flat—presumably a piece of art—and another seemed to contain jewelry....”
They all stared at him. “I just wanted to let you know.” He shrugged. “Garcia might have been killed over something in his house—something he knew nothing about.”
“Are you finding out exactly what packages were being held at Garcia’s house?” Quinn asked.
“We’ll have a full report from Garcia’s company by morning.”
“So where are we? What’ve we got?” Billie asked.
“Five corpses—and a seasoned cop scared out of his wits,” Larue said. “That’s what we’ve got.”
“Plus missing evidence. And fog, mist, smoke,” Quinn added thoughtfully. “Natasha?”
“I haven’t heard a thing from the street,” she replied. “But...”
“But what?” Quinn asked sharply.
Danni stood quickly; she didn’t want Quinn trying to read her mind when her thoughts were still so jumbled. If she acted casual and began to clear the table, he might not notice.
Okay, so Natasha had some kind of sight. She’d told Danni a dozen times that with most people who came to the shop, she read the person more than she ever read a tarot card or tea leaf. And she was very good at it; as a priestess, she knew her followers. She knew when they needed guidance, when they should take a chance and when they should keep their heads down.
But that day, when she’d read Danni’s tea leaves, something had been different. Danni had never seen Natasha quite like she’d been that day.
“I’m sensing that this is a situation we all need to be involved in,” Natasha said, glancing at Danni.
Danni felt Quinn’s eyes on her. Then, when she reached for a plate, she felt his hand. He looked at her as he asked Natasha, “What did you see?”
Natasha seemed to carefully gauge her words. “A very strange sight, and that’s why I’m so curious about your ‘fog’ at the station. I saw Danni standing on a hill, and there was a castle in the background...a medieval castle, I believe. She was shouting, warning someone. The fog—the mist or whatever it was—seemed dark and shadowy. Gloomy. But there was something else.”
“Like what?” Quinn pressed.
“There was a crimson cast to it. Crimson...red...” She paused. “I wish I’d seen more. I wish I knew more.”
“Crimson. Red,” Larue repeated.
“The color of blood,” Billie said.
Chapter Four
FINALLY, THEIR GUESTS were gone for the night, each one in a pensive and expectant mood, dreading what the future would hold.
Danni went up to her room first. Quinn—being Quinn—had taken Wolf and gone through the house, assuring himself that the place was securely locked. Since Royal Street was just a block from Bourbon, the faint sounds of music and laughter continued.
The murders had been on the news all day. But visitors to the city—revelers on the streets—probably believed they were a strictly local phenomenon. Still, most people would be more careful that night; when they met in the city’s bars or clubs they’d talk about what had happened not far from the French Quarter.
But while they’d react with horror and sympathy, they would tell themselves that it didn’t affect them.
Danni usually turned on the television in the evenings. That night, she didn’t. She already knew what she’d see on the news.
Quinn came upstairs, quietly opening the door, and just as quietly closing it behind him.
“You asleep?” he asked her.
“Seriously?” she replied.
“I’d rather hoped not,” he said.
“Wolf’s been relegated to the hall?”
“He doesn’t seem to mind. He lets me be the alpha dog.”
“And I thought I was the alpha dog,” Danni said.
He stood in the doorway. “I was thinking—” he began.
“No thinking tonight!” It had been too long. She rose naked from the bed and walked over to him, met his hungry, urgent kiss with her own as she tugged at his shirt.
He kissed her while removing his jacket, shoulder holster and gun, allowing her to play with the buttons on his shirt.
Then he grew impatient and unfastened them himself.
Danni wondered how she’d ever had the strength to let him go. In his arms she immediately felt the inferno between them. His clothing was strewn about the floor and since she hadn’t bothered with any...
They fell together on her bed. He laughed, rising above her, and then his lips found hers again and they kissed, tongues delving, lips locking and breaking apart so they could gasp for breath, then joining again. She grasped his shoulders, the muscles moving sleekly beneath her touch. He was back; he was with her. It was real, the sheets beneath her were real, the moonlight filtering through the drapes was real. And the force of his body against hers was both solid and dreamlike. For long seconds she was content to feel his flesh, to stroke his shoulders and down his back. But she felt his kiss moving against her, felt his lips on her throat, teasing her collarbones. His hands curved around and caressed her breasts and then his tongue and lips bathed her where his hands had been. She thought she might crawl out of her skin, she was so desperate to be part of him.
He was a tender lover, a careful lover, always wanting to arouse as he was aroused. But she felt the hardness of his erection so swiftly that night, felt him slide into her, and she wanted him so badly, she shared his impatience, entwining her limbs around his, moving with him, arching closer. She felt the frantic rhythm of her heart and his. The music from Bourbon Street seemed to fade away, and even the moon seemed to pale. All that remained was the feel of each other, their desperate, urgent need to be together again.
She rose toward him, the urgency so sweet it was nearly painful, and yet she wanted the moment to go on and on. She saw his eyes, the passion in them, and the wonder he seemed to feel when he was with her, and it was an even greater seduction. She curved her arms around him, and felt the euphoria sweep through her as they shuddered, almost violently, both rocked by their climax.
He half fell and half eased himself to her side. For a minute he was silent. “Whose idea was it that we were better off moving slowly?” he finally asked.
She smiled and turned into him. “Yours.”
“No, I think it was yours.”
He held her, drawing her to him, and kissed her lovingly. “We won’t always need to be apart. When I’m in the city, it just makes sense for me to stay here.”
“We...” Danni faltered. For her, he was perfect. She’d met him not long after her father died. She’d been at a loss, confused, disbelieving—and Quinn had barreled into her life.
“We what?” he asked her.
She ran her fingers through the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. “You know, I didn’t even like you when we met.”
“And I wasn’t that fond of you, either. Except that I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen.”
“And now?”
“What do you think?”
“I’ve always thought that actions speak more loudly than words,” she said primly.
He grinned. And she smiled as he swept her into his arms. Their world might be going to hell again. But he was with her that night.
She wanted to cling to every moment until morning came.
* * *
Quinn could only explain the fact that he hadn’t awakened when she left the bed by reminding himself that he hadn’t really slept in almost forty-eight hours. He’d barely been back at his house before Larue had called that morning.
He woke now because Wolf was nudging his hand and whining. And if Wolf was in the room, the door was open. But the dog wasn’t injured and he wasn’t barking; there was no intruder in the house.
He jumped up, grabbing a robe. Then he grabbed a second robe. This had happened before. If the dog wanted him awake but nothing had disturbed the house, Danni was in her studio.
He hurried down the stairs and stopped in the doorway, watching her. He worried when he saw her like this but he was also afraid to startle her. She seemed frenzied and intent, yet she wasn’t actually awake.
She sat before the canvas on its easel, her posture completely straight. She made a picture of absolute beauty with her hair flowing down her naked back. Her palette of colors lay next to the canvas where she worked, and she painted as if she were an automaton.
He walked over to stand beside her.
Something inside him seemed to tighten.
She’d copied the Hubert painting he’d seen in the gallery that morning except...
There was nothing deceptive about its beauty. The colors drew the eye and compelled the viewer to look more closely. What he saw revealed the emotions hidden in the original work. Her version of the painting made immediately explicit what Hubert’s had veiled.
Everyone in this painting had apparently been startled and had turned as if to face a camera. The beautiful woman on the settee or love seat had her dagger out and seemed to be snarling at the man. He’d aimed his gun and moved into position to shoot the woman, an expression of hatred on what you could see of his face. The suits of armor has stepped forward, both holding swords. The chess pieces were running in terror while the children who’d been playing the game were trying to smash them with a large chalice and a medieval shield. Over the fireplace, the man in the portrait was directing the action with a cruel zeal written into his features. The child playing with the guillotine was slicing off the head of another doll—but the doll seemed to be alive and screaming.
That damned giclée. She was creating her own image of the giclée in the shop. Had the horror of it gotten to her?
He knew that wasn’t true. Danni was strong; she’d been born with her father’s strength. He knew her, and he’d known Angus, so he was sure of that.
Danni’s hand paused in midair. He caught her wrist gently and took the paintbrush from her fingers, setting it on the palette. He placed her robe around her shoulders and knelt beside her, shaking her lightly as he said her name. “Danni. Danni, wake up.”
She blinked several times and then stared at him with wide eyes. She shivered, and he gathered the robe more tightly around her. Her eyes quickly scanned the studio and then met his again.
“I—I was sleepwalking?”
“Sleep painting,” he told her.
She didn’t want to look at her creation. He didn’t want to let her, but he knew he had to.
She slowly turned and studied the painting. He saw the horror dawn in her expression.
“It’s just a painting,” she whispered. Anger hardened her voice when she spoke again. “No, not even a painting. A copy of a painting, a giclée.”
“We’ll have to find the real one,” he said.
He had a feeling he knew where the real one was—somewhere in New Orleans.
She shook her head. “Find it? You don’t understand. It’s a museum piece.” She hesitated. “It was just sold. Niles heard a rumor that it’s been bought by someone here in the city. But even if we find it...we’d need millions to get it!”
He stood and pulled her to her feet, holding her close. “It’s coming here?” That rumor confirmed—or at least reinforced—what he already suspected.
“Nothing definite so far,” she said.
“We’ll get it,” he vowed. “Whatever it takes.”
She drew away. “How? First, we’d have to identify the new owner—a multimillionaire or billionaire, for sure—and convince him that he’s spent a fortune on a killer painting? And you suppose he’ll hand it right over?”
He tried to ease her shaking, tried to speak calmly. “We’ll have to break in and steal it, then.”
“Break in and steal it?” she asked. “You think it is here!”
“In the morning,” he said. “Come on. We’re going back to bed.”
“I can’t go to bed.”
“Yes, you can.”
“But...”
“I’m here, Danni. I’m here. And I’ll hold you until you fall asleep, I swear it.”
The slightest smile appeared on her lips; she’d needed his strength. Now, she was drawing on her own reserves. “And then you’ll let go of me?” she asked. “When I’m asleep?”
“No. Well, not until morning when we wake up and want to get out of bed.”
“I guess we should get more sleep,” she murmured. He could tell that she didn’t want to look back at her own work again, but she couldn’t help herself. “I don’t remember everything I probably learned about Hubert in my art history classes. Tomorrow, I’m going to find out whatever I can about the man.” She turned back to Quinn. “Like a lot of artists, he supposedly used people around him to create his characters. I remember that much—and I want to know who they all are. I also want to know why. Why there’d be so much evil on every face.”
“You might learn something from talking to Dr. Hubert. He admits that he’s a descendant, but he doesn’t seem very keen on the fact.”
“I will talk to him,” Danni said.
He cupped her chin in his hands. “Tomorrow,” he told her softly.
He heard Wolf whine. The dog had been standing silently in the doorway, waiting for them.
“Oh, Wolf!” Danni hurried forward, kneeling to take the dog’s massive head between her hands and plant a kiss on his nose. “Good boy. Good Wolf. Thank you for watching over me.”
Wolf wagged his tail and Quinn thought the dog had been one of his best rescues ever. Unconditional love. And protection. Wolf would die for either of them.
“All right, let’s get some sleep,” he said. “I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”
Danni rose, and they started to walk out of the room.
Something brought him back. The canvas, of course, wasn’t dry. Despite that, he covered it with one of her artist’s sheets.
He didn’t want anyone looking at the damned thing. Hell, Billie was old. He could see those faces and have a heart attack!
* * *
Quinn knew the desk sergeant on duty when he walked into the station. The officer nodded in acknowledgment. “Larue said to send you right in when I saw you,” he said.
“Thanks.” Quinn could see Jake Larue through the glass panes of his office. Larue was studying a file; he looked worn and haggard. Quinn assumed he hadn’t slept much, either.
He tapped on the door and walked in.
“Quinn. Great. I was hoping you’d be early,” Larue said. “I have the list from James Garcia’s courier company. He was a trusted employee for sure. He was carrying a package filled with gold and gems that had been valued, signed sports memorabilia for a charity auction and—”
“A painting that recently sold in the millions,” Quinn finished for him.
Larue frowned at Quinn when he sat down in front of him. “Yes. The painting is called—”
“Ghosts in the Mind,” Quinn said. “It’s by an artist named Hubert—who, incidentally, was a distant ancestor of our favorite M.E., Dr. Ron Hubert. Hubert the artist was found dead at an old castle in Geneva, still staring at the painting. It was his last work.”
Larue picked up the file. “Okay, but here’s what you may not know yet. The painting was purchased by a Mrs. Hattie Lamont, who lives in one of the grand old mansions on Esplanade. She’s a widow and her husband was a computer genius who built and sold half a dozen companies. Since she’s been in NOLA, she’s joined every social club and charity foundation in the city, or so it appears. The painting was due to her by ten this morning.”
“And it was missing from the evidence lockup after the ‘fog’?” Quinn asked, already knowing the answer.
Larue nodded vigorously. “And here’s the really curious thing about the three packages that went missing. Our crime scene people swear that we brought all three of them to the evidence room. But they were delivered to their recipients early this morning.”
“And we have no idea how? I’m assuming the recipient has to sign for a package of that value!” Quinn said.
“In theory. I’ve already sent sketch artists to all three houses to get them to describe the delivery person,” Larue told him. “However, that person didn’t exactly make himself known.”
“What about the delivery vehicle? Wouldn’t the company know if one had been taken? And what about Garcia’s truck?”
“Garcia’s truck is still at the police impound. Judging by what I’ve gotten back from my officers in the field, no one saw a delivery truck or remembers seeing one anywhere near them.” Larue glanced at his notes again. “But as Tobias Granville—owner of the assessed jewels—said, he was looking at his package and not down the street. He should have signed for the package. He says he didn’t, that it was just at his door and he didn’t even glance up once he had it in his hands.”
Quinn shook his head. “So, a family was brutally murdered. Evidence came into lockup, evidence disappeared from lockup and then it was all delivered where it belonged.”
Larue leaned back. “We’ve retrieved the packaging from Mr. Granville’s delivery and from the charity people. Again, the box just showed up at their office door. And of course, the packaging is compromised now. People ripped it up. But we’ll try to examine the pieces that have blood spatter.”
“No one noticed blood spatter?” Quinn asked dryly.
“There wasn’t a lot. Hey, if you’re waiting for a fortune in jewelry, are you really going to worry about wrapping paper? Spots of dried blood on brown paper could be anything,” Larue pointed out. “Flaw in the paper itself, a drop of coffee, smeared ink. Who knows?”
“What about Mrs. Lamont’s package?”
“Well, this is interesting. Her butler—yeah, she has a butler—says he did sign for it.”
“And the wrapping paper?”
“She wouldn’t give it to us,” Larue said sheepishly. “We’re still working on that.”
Quinn sighed. “Well, let’s take a look at that fog or whatever it is—and anything else the cameras caught.”
Larue got to his feet. “I can show you what we’ve got.”
* * *
Henry Sebastian Hubert.
The man had been getting attention recently, and he’d certainly received some during his lifetime, especially because of his connection with Byron, Shelley and their circle. But, alas, like so many writers and artists, he wouldn’t actually achieve fame until he died—in front of his last painting, considered his finest, most emotional, most intricate and most disturbing work of art. Ghosts in the Mind. Even so, his fame was erratic at best, and he’d never been more than a minor, if talented, painter. Danni sat at the desk in her studio, flipping through art books, Wolf curled at her feet.
When she’d gone through her books, she turned to her computer, keying in book sites to see if anyone had ever done a biography of the man. She found a few slim volumes, as well as several books that included a chapter on Hubert and his work, and ordered them for overnight delivery.
Frustrated, she scratched Wolf’s head. “Wolf, I have to leave without you, I’m afraid. I’m going to take a trip to the library. But you’ll be fine. Billie and Bo Ray are both here, working at the store.”
She stood and started out of her studio, then paused.
She didn’t want to look at the painting she’d done the night before. And yet she felt she needed to.
Walking over to her easel, she lifted the sheet from the canvas. The paint had been wet when Quinn covered it, but he’d been careful. There was a little smudging, but nothing that diminished the pure evil that seemed to exist in every stroke.
The faces showed humanity at its absolute worst. They bore hatred, bitterness, maliciousness, cruelty...evil. The darkest part of the human soul. These characters were ready to dole out agony without even blinking. This rendition had none of the subtlety or perspective of the Hubert painting, but at a distance, the colors blended together in a way that was striking. She imagined that if it hung in a gallery, people who saw it would be compelled to come closer....
And once they did, they’d be repelled. She studied each face. She’d have to see the Hubert again, but as she examined her own version of it, a sick feeling seemed to lodge in her stomach and stretch out to her limbs.
Had these characters been taken from life? Were they real people?
Wolf didn’t like the painting, either; he whined softly at her side.
She could no longer look at her own work and quickly recovered the canvas.
She turned and left the studio.
* * *
The evidence lockup was in a police station; someone should’ve seen something. There should have been at least one security camera that picked up what the others didn’t. But the fog was there. In every single image. The best techs on the force had searched through them all and found nothing but gray.
“It’s like trying to see through an extremely overcast day,” Larue commented. “Even where there was no fog, that’s what the security cameras recorded. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You got the packaging back on two of the deliveries—but not the objects?” Quinn demanded
“I can’t tell you how hard it would be to insist that people return priceless objects that belong to them,” Larue said.
“But we could ask.”
Larue scowled at him. “Okay, the charity auction—which supports housing in areas that still look like trash bins because of the storms—takes place this afternoon. The man with the jewelry isn’t about to let his diamonds and gold go again. And as far as that painting goes...well, Mrs. Lamont threatened to bring in the mayor, the governor and the president of the U.S.” He shook his head. “She wouldn’t even let us have the damn wrapping—said she didn’t have time to ‘properly devote’ to the painting, and until she did, she wasn’t unwrapping it.”
“I’ll go see her,” Quinn said.
“And do what?”
“I’ll talk to her. Meanwhile, you need to get some kind of court order to get that painting back.”
“A judge already slapped my wrist and explained civil rights and property law to me.”
“It’s evidence!”
“I’m doing everything in my power,” Larue insisted.
“Fine. Then I might as well give it a shot. Can’t hurt.”
Larue apparently agreed. “Hey, I have a suggestion,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Take Danni. That way, maybe Mrs. Lamont will at least let you see the painting.”
Quinn nodded. It wasn’t a bad idea. Danni had a name as a local artist. Once upon a time—before her father’s death—art had been what she wanted in life. And she was good.
Notwithstanding her strange nocturnal frenzies at the canvas.
* * *
At the library, Danni leafed through book after book. She’d tried working online, but when it came to art, the best resources—in her opinion, anyway—could be found in a museum or at a library. Some books simply weren’t available online or for digital readers; this was especially true of expensive reference books that featured color reproductions.
Much of what she read she was already familiar with. Henry Sebastian Hubert had been born in 1790, making him twenty-six when he had rented a castle, the House of Guillaume, at Lake Geneva in the summer of 1816.
And he’d been twenty-six when he died. Like Shelley, he’d had a wife, a woman named Eloisa, who’d been left behind in England with their toddler son when Hubert had basically deserted her to spend his time on the shores of Lake Geneva. Maybe, had he lived, he would’ve gone back to her. But that was just Danni’s musing. She did love happy endings.
Hubert had not had a happy ending.
He’d created his first well-known work when he was in his late teens. It had been titled Graveyard at Night. It was a sad and oddly arresting piece, showing the facade of a medieval church surrounded by jagged, lichen-covered stones. His next work, more sophisticated, had been called Hanging Tree. There was no body hanging from the tree in the painting; the tree itself was the focus, skeletal and bony, seeming to move with the breeze, surrounded by shadow and ghostly images of those who’d met their deaths at the end of that one massive branch. In this painting, he’d begun his work with perspective. Of course, Danni was only looking at the reproductions in the book, but even then, she could see that, at first glance, there was nothing but the tree in the shadows and swirling dust. When she angled the page slightly, the shadows became ghosts.
Hubert had started young and by twenty-six he was well on his way. And then he’d painted Ghosts in the Mind.
When he was discovered dead, his wife had been informed, and the authorities had begun to prepare the body for transport to England.
Eloisa hadn’t wanted him back, so he’d been interred in the old crypt at the castle. His belongings were packed up and shipped back to her, and according to reputable sources, she hadn’t touched any of the paintings he’d done in Switzerland. Apparently, many people had tried to buy them from her—especially Ghosts in the Mind, since that painting had been done at the castle while Lord Byron, Shelley and Mary were an influence on his work. But she hadn’t unpacked a single crate.
At her death, her son had ordered that his father’s belongings be sold. That was in 1888. Henry Hubert’s widow had survived until the ripe old age of ninety-three, living happily off her inheritance and the proceeds from his previous artwork. She’d been quite the socialite.
The painting was purchased by a gallery in London. She’d promised the owner that, upon her death, he could buy the piece from her son.
Closing up one night, the owner was murdered. The gallery caught fire. Little attention was paid to the event, since it occurred on the same night as Jack the Ripper’s infamous murder of Mary Kelly in Whitechapel.
The painting was found in a thieves’ den where the thieves had fought over their ill-gotten gains and taken swords, pistols and knives to one another.
Danni sat back, catching her breath with a chilling sense of déjà vu.
Death followed the damned thing everywhere. Garcia’s house had been the scene of a massacre, too. She was more and more convinced that the painting had been in one of the courier packages waiting at his house. Nothing else made sense.
She looked up, gazing around the library. A woman was reading to a group of toddlers in the children’s section; a number of students were busy at computers. The library was sunny, bright, filled with activity. The world seemed good.
She looked back at the book, determined to pursue the course of the painting’s history.
It was locked away again as another twenty years went by, with police trying to sort through ownership. The gallery owner who’d been killed had died with neither wife nor child, so returning it properly became difficult.
Then, as she continued to study the painting’s provenance, she learned that an art historian, president of a small but prestigious museum in London, had acquired it at an art auction. Ghosts in the Mind was given a place of honor at his gallery in Surrey. There it was viewed by the public for several years, studied by art students. The place closed before dusk daily—and remained under guard. In January of 1915, the Germans attacked London with their first Zeppelin raids. Five people took shelter in the gallery that night.

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