Judging by marks in the dust, the killer had definitely looked under the bed, though.
So had the killer been looking for an object of a certain size?
“Are we having the same idea?” Grace asked, interrupting his thoughts. “The guy was looking for something at least as big as a bread box.”
“Looks like it. Well, I want to talk to the landlord. Thanks, Grace. And the usual, of course. Keep me posted, please.”
She nodded. “You know I will.”
“Your thoughts, as well as anything scientific,” he said.
“You bet, Quinn.”
He hurried back downstairs.
Larue was waiting for him. He stepped outside, and Quinn followed.
Larue turned to him. “We have a sadistic killer on our hands,” he said.
“I think that’s obvious,” Quinn said.
Larue met Quinn’s eyes, his own expression thoughtful. “The night of the first murder, there was a holdup in the street. A group of musicians was stopped at gunpoint late at night. All that was taken were their instruments—sax, guitar, harmonica, if I remember right. One fellow was hurt pretty badly, pistol-whipped.”
“Did they give you a description of their attacker?”
“They said he was medium build. They thought tall. He had a ‘plastic’ face. And they’re pretty sure he was wearing a wig.”
“A plastic face?” Quinn asked. “Probably a mask. God knows you can buy any kind of mask around here.”
“You have to admit, it does seem similar enough to hint at a connection, though. Assaulting a group of musicians in the street, and then two musicians murdered, the first the same night as the assault.”
“Yes. Although as far as we know he left all the instruments behind in both murders.”
“True. But it seems probable that it’s the same person—someone with a hate on for musicians—and he’s escalating.”
“And at a fantastic degree. We’re going to have dead musicians lying across the entire city if we don’t get to the truth quickly.”
“Okay, so we’ll have a visit with Mrs. Ruby then get to the hospital and talk to Lacey Cavanaugh,” Larue said grimly.
* * *
There was nothing like the sound of a sax.
Danni Cafferty stood just outside La Porte Rouge and listened to the music spilling from the Bourbon Street pub. It was delightful.
Somehow the addition of a sax seemed to make almost anything sound better—richer, deeper, truer.
Wolf, at her side, barked, breaking her concentration. “Hey, boy,” she said, patting the hybrid’s head. “It’s okay, I’m coming. I just wasn’t expecting to be so enchanted. Beautiful, isn’t it? No, maybe cool or...mournful, in a way. There’s something deep and passionate about a sax, huh?”
Wolf barked again as if in complete agreement and wagged his tail.
She looked into the club. From the side door she could see the band. It was darker in the club than it was outside, and it took her a minute to see the sax player. He was tall, lean and striking. She thought instantly that he was a New Orleans boy, born and bred, the way he played his sax. And there was something special about him. He was a beautiful golden color, with close-cropped dark hair, and he leaned into his music as if he’d been born listening to it, born to play. He wasn’t playing alone, of course, but it seemed to her that he was amazing—even in a city filled with amazing musicians.
She couldn’t listen all evening, she told herself. Quinn had called to tell her that Jake—Detective Larue, his ex-partner from his days as a NOLA cop—was coming by to see them that night. She was carrying takeout from her friend’s new restaurant on St. Ann’s, and she’d actually meant to head down the block to Royal but had decided to walk along Bourbon for a few blocks first.
She hadn’t meant to get so distracted.
The song—something by Bruce Springsteen—ended. And then, despite the difference in the light inside and out, she realized that the sax player was staring at her. Well, she was standing in the bar’s doorway with a giant hybrid wolf–German shepherd at her side. She told herself it was Wolf. That the guy was staring at the dog by her side. People always stared at Wolf. They were either terrified, or they wanted to cuddle him.
But the truth was, the man wasn’t looking at the dog, he was staring straight at her. As if he knew her.
She frowned.
Did she know him?
She might. She’d gone to school here, along with a number of her high school classmates who had never moved away, and while they might all live in different areas now and do different things, they ran into one another now and then. The guy did seem familiar. He might have been one of the kids who, like her, ended up in a local private school after the storms had struck, since their own schools had been flooded.
But she wasn’t sure. She lifted a hand and waved, then shouted, “Way to go! Wow!”
Then she left, still feeling a little uneasy.
She turned at the next corner and cut down to Royal Street, heading for her house and her souvenir and collectibles shop, The Cheshire Cat, that occupied a chunk of the first floor.
The front door was open when Danni reached the shop, which was just as it should have been. They didn’t officially close until seven, and it was barely past six.
Billie MacDougall—who had been her dad’s right-hand man and assistant until the day he died and was now hers—was behind the counter. Billie looked like a cross between an aging Billy Idol and Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He was skinny as a beanpole, but his looks were deceptive, because he had a wiry strength. He was also the best employee—and friend—anyone could ever have.
“Dinner!” he said, grinning as he saw her, his Scot’s burr coming out in the single word despite his decades in America.
She walked to the counter and set down her bags of takeout. “Figures I could help out a friend with a new place and have something wonderful to eat.”
“Do I smell lasagna?” Billie asked eagerly.
She smiled. “You do indeed. When Adriana decided to open a restaurant, I suspected it would be Italian, since she’s first generation herself. I’m sure it’s excellent, too. I loved eating at her house when I was growing up.”
Billie made a face. “You doona like Scottish fare, lass?”
Danni laughed. “Sure, I love it. Not that it’s plentiful in New Orleans,” she said drily.
“Plentiful enough in this house. If I’ve made it, it’s Scottish. And you love my cooking.”
“This is America. We love everything. But if you’ve suddenly discovered that you don’t like Italian, you don’t have to eat it, you know.”
“Don’t be cheeky, lass. I’ll just take the bags to the kitchen and get things set up,” he told her, grabbing the food. “I’ll go ahead and have me dinner then watch the shop till closing so you and Quinn can take as much time as you like for dinner.” He grinned at her. “That is, if there’s any food left.”
“I bought a salad, bruschetta and a whole tray of lasagna,” she said. “I don’t believe you could possibly eat it all.”
“You never do know now, do you? Make fun of me and Scot’s cooking, will you?” Billie said.
Danni